Chapter Two

"Mint?" Evie asked, prying the top off a circular metal tin and holding it out to the Earl of Hawkridge. "I find on long journeys there's nothing worse than stale breath."

"Oh," Weston replied icily from the far corner of the carriage where he sat wrapped in shadows and silent disdain, "I can think of at least one thing worse."

"Suit yourself." Slipping a hard peppermint between her lips, Evie used her tongue to press it to the roof of her mouth as her gaze went to the window. They'd exchanged the busy streets of London for the rolling countryside of southern England. Here the houses were few and far between, with more sheep dotting the sprawling green fields than people.

The passing scenery reminded her of home. But unlike Joanna, who was boarding a ship at this very moment to return to the sleepy village of Somerville, and their sister, Claire, who'd been unable to leave it, Evie knew that she was exactly where she wanted to be. In a fancy carriage, sitting across from a handsome earl, on her way to an exclusive house party.

Of the three sisters, Joanna was the boldest. Claire, with her quiet scientific mind, was undoubtedly the brightest. But Evie, more than anything else, had always desired to be the best. And for her, that meant having the unparalleled admiration of her peers.

She'd started her quest for prestige at a young age when she'd made herself into the most popular girl at Chesterbrook Academy for Young Ladies. Some thought that popularity was accidental, a whim of fate, such as it were, but Evie knew that it was much more than that. It was hard work, and cunning, and knowing just the right thing to say to just the right person.

There were those (including Joanna) who considered her aspirations to be superficial. Silly, even. But having her peers gaze at her with envy as she sauntered down the street wasn't silly to Evie. Having the best, most beautiful gowns wasn't silly. Living in the biggest house in the entire village wasn't silly. Marrying Evan Bridgeton, the eldest son of a senator, wasn't silly.

It was smart, and practical. It was using the natural traits afforded her as a woman to thrive in a world controlled by men. And if occasionally she became a bit too consumed with how she looked or how others perceived her, well, that was all part of it.

For all intents and purposes, Evie was on the verge of living a perfect life. She was going to marry the best bachelor in all of Somerville (even if he didn't know it yet). They were going to have the best children. Host the best parties. Travel to the best places. It was all but etched in stone, really.

Until the War of the Great Rebellion happened and Evie lost…everything.

Including her father.

A skilled physician, Jacob Thorncroft had felt it was his civic duty to help the Union in whatever capacity they needed him. Leaving his three daughters in the care of his mother, he had marched off to war…and ten months later his remains were returned to them in a pine box.

To this day, Evie had never known pain like that. The bewildering, baffling hurt of realizing the last time she had held her father's hand, kissed his cheek, and told him that she loved him had been just that…the last time.

In her head, she'd understood the risk of war. What it could give, and what it might take. But in her heart…in her heart, she'd never really believed that it was her father who might be killed. Her father who might never come home. Her father who she would never see again.

It still ached, to think of him. Like a bone that had broken and never set right. Enough time had passed that the ache was no longer sharp enough to steal her breath, but all it took was a color, or a smell, or the sound of a deep laugh and she was found herself recalling all of the memories they had made together.

And mourning all the memories they never would.

Without their father's financial support, it wasn't long before the sisters were forced to sell their grand house in the middle of town. With tears in her eyes, Evie had watched from the window of her empty bedroom as all of their worldly possessions were loaded into carts and carried away to be sold at auction.

The servants were let go next, and then the carriages were sold, followed quickly by the horses. In the blink of an eye, the Thorncrofts went from being one of the wealthiest and most highly regarded families in Somerville to living in a drafty cottage outside the village with hardly enough room to accommodate the mice living in the attic, let alone three young women and their grandmother.

It was a tremendous fall.

A fall that Evie took personally.

And she'd promised herself, she'd vowed, that the day would come when she returned to the top of that ladder. She would claw her way there if necessary, but she'd be damned if she stayed on a rung where people looked at her with pity in their eyes.

"Would you stop that?" Weston said irritably, drawing Evie out of the past and back into the present.

Blinking, she glanced away from the window to where her carriage companion was slouched in the opposite diagonal corner, his long legs sprawled out in front of him and his arms crossed.

He'd closed the curtain to his window before he even sat down, leading her to assume that he intended to sleep for the duration of their journey. After attempting to engage him in a mild conversation about the weather which he replied to in a series of grunts and glares, she'd decided to let Weston sulk while she enjoyed the luxury of traveling across England in the most magnificent coach she'd ever seen, let alone had the pleasure of riding in.

Marked with the Earl of Hawkridge's insignia in gold on the outside, it was upholstered with rich emerald green velvet within. Wood trim gleamed in the subdued light, and silk tassels hung from the canopied ceiling. The seats were large and roomy, and the carriage's suspension was well sprung for she'd felt nary a jolt on their trip thus far. If not for Weston's unpleasant demeanor, the trip would have been downright heavenly.

"Stop what?" she asked, bemused by the request.

Scowling, he leaned forward ever-so-slightly. "Making that noise."

"What noise?"

His scowl deepening, he gestured at her mouth. "That noise. That–that sucking noise."

"Sucking noise? I don't…I…oh, you mean this." She stuck out of her tongue, revealing what remained of the peppermint, before tucking it into the side of her cheek. "I wasn't aware I was being unduly loud. I did offer you one, you know."

"I don't want a mint," he said in a strangled voice. "I want you to not do that again."

"Not do what again?"

"That thing you just did with your tongue."

"I was showing you the peppermint."

His ebony brows pulled inward to form a line of disapproval. "As an uncivilized American, you most likely aren't aware of this, but British ladies do not go around sticking their tongues out of their mouths. If you are to be a guest at my estate, I expect a modicum of common decency and good manners."

"If you don't like it, then look the other direction," she suggested before she resumed staring out the window…and slid the peppermint to the roof of her mouth with a loud pop of suction.

"That does it," Weston snarled. "Give it to me."

She flicked a disdainful glance at the arm he was holding out to her, his palm raised flat. He'd worn gloves when he'd entered the coach but had removed them sometime after they'd set off, exposing his hand to her gaze.

In her (admittedly limited) experience, Evie found that men of leisure often had the soft, lily-white hands of a lady. Unsurprising, given the most vigorous physical activity required of them on any given day was pouring themselves a glass of scotch. And even then, they had a footman at their beck and call if the task proved to be too arduous an undertaking.

But with some interest, she saw that Weston's hand was neither soft nor the same shade as a fish's underbelly. Instead, his fingertips were marred with rough calluses and his skin was a warm brushed gold, indicating that he often saw fit to discard his gloves.

A wicked part of her wondered at the rest of his body that she couldn't see. Were his gloves the only article of clothing he went without? Or was he in the habit of roaming his private estate sans a waistcoat and cravat with his shirt partially unbuttoned?

It was an intriguing image, to be sure.

One she might have allowed herself to imagine a bit further if he wasn't currently looking at her as if he wanted to yank open the door and toss her out.

"What is it you want now?" she asked with a sigh.

"I want you to give me that cursed tin," he gritted.

"What tin?"

"The tin with the mints!"

"Why?"

It was evident by the way his eyes flashed that he wasn't accustomed to having his orders questioned. "Because I'm going to throw it out the window."

That was better, she supposed, than throwing her out the window. But still not preferable, as it was her last batch of peppermints and she hadn't the money to purchase another. Truth be told, she hadn't any money. None of the Thorncrofts did, and that was why their mother's ring was of such importance. Why they'd made the painful decision to sell it. Why they'd gone to Boston to have it appraised. And the ring was why she was here right now, sitting across from an earl who, by all outward appearances, despised the very sight of her.

Of course, if he hadn't paid off every jeweler in Boston and its surrounding areas to alert his detectives when the ring surfaced and then have them steal it, she and Joanna wouldn't have had to come to London in the first place.

It was Weston's fault, really.

Everything.

Although Evie thought it best to keep that particular fact to herself at the moment lest he did open the door and toss her out.

"I shall gladly discard the peppermint," she said, "if you stop glaring at me and agree to indulge in pleasant conversation. What is your opinion of the weather today? I am glad to see that it has finally stopped raining."

His jaw tightened. "This is not a negotiation, Miss Thorncroft. And I don't give a damn about the weather."

No, the only thing he cared about was hating her. Even though she'd done nothing except befriend his sister, invite herself to his house party, and abscond with his carriage. Hardly anything of notable consequence.

Then there was the small matter of her mother having a secret affair with his father, but that wasn't her fault, was it? She hadn't even been born. Unfortunately, if Weston's persistent glower was any indication, he didn't see it that way. And he clearly had no intention in indulging her request for amicable discourse.

Pity, as the weather was lovely.

Outside the carriage, at least.

Turning her head to the side, Evie discreetly swallowed her mint and cast her gaze to the passing scenery. She'd have plenty of time to antagonize Weston over the coming days. No need to poke the bear unnecessarily. Especially if her goal was to win the bear's favor.

It really was the height of irony. There wasn't a man alive in Somerville she could not have wrapped around her little finger if she but expelled the tiniest amount of effort. Including Evan Bridgeton, whose father was now considering a bid for the presidency after Grant ran for his second term.

What a wonderful match that would have been! Evan's political ambitions paired with her social ones. They could have taken Washington society by storm. Only her grandmother's absurd rule that Joanna had to be the first of the three sisters to marry had prevented Evie from becoming the daughter-in-law of a senator. Well, that and the fact she'd never technically received a proposal.

Joanna still did not have a husband. But as their grandmother wasn't in England, and as she hadn't specifically stated whether her rule extended beyond international waters, Evie did not feel obligated to adhere to it. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and she was going to marry the Earl of Hawkridge.

He just didn't know it yet.