Chapter Twenty-One

His father was here.

Of anywhere Weston would have preferred the Marquess of Dorchester to be–the ground being one of them–this was the worst place, and the worst time, his father possibly could have chosen to finally make an appearance.

Like a shark smelling blood in the water, had he known, somehow, that his only son and heir was on the brink of happiness? Or was he here for some other purpose?

There was only one way to find out.

"Send him in, Mr. Stevens," Weston said grimly, and then he sat behind his desk to wait.

When Jason Weston, Marquess of Dorchester, entered the study, the first thing Weston noted about his father was how old he appeared.

Maybe it was due to the fact that they hadn't seen each other in person for over a year. Or maybe it was simply because children always tended to view their parents through a lens that was unchanged by days, or months, or even years. Whatever the reason, it was clear that the marquess had aged considerably since they'd last occupied the same room.

Jason's hair, once as black and thick as his son's, was thinning and gray. His face had more creases. The back of his hands, when he removed his leather gloves, had more veins running through them. His mouth was thinner. Flatter. His forehead more pronounced. But his eyes…cold, piercing, and gray…his eyes were exactly the same.

"Son," he said bluntly as he crossed the study and helped himself to a generous pour of scotch. "You appear healthy enough. A bit pale, perhaps. You should get outside more."

Five seconds in, and Weston's teeth were already on edge, his hackles raised, his hands knotted underneath his desk.

"Father," he replied just as curtly. "What are you doing here?"

"This is the annual house party, is it not?" Jason settled himself in an oversized chair and crossed his legs at the knee. "I presumed my attendance was expected."

"Expected, yes. Counted on, no." Weston forced himself to take a deep, even breath. Their last discussion had ended in an argument. Which wasn't a surprise, in and of itself. But it was the topic of that argument, namely, his father's American mistress, Anne Thorncroft, which had him proceeding with extreme caution. "You must have heard by now that your daughter and her sister have come to England."

"Joanna and Evelyn Thorncroft." The marquess glanced into his scotch before he raised the glass to his mouth and took a liberal swallow. "Yes, I am aware. It has also come to my attention that Jacob Thorncroft was killed during the War Between the States, leaving his three daughters and mother on the brink of destitution. I've already made arrangements for my solicitor to reach out to Joanna and settle a modest sum of ten thousand pounds in her name, to be used at her discretion."

A fortune, by anyone's standards.

And no less than what Joanna deserved.

Just a few weeks ago, Weston wouldn't have thought so. He'd have been angry–furious, even–that his father was bestowing a sizable inheritance upon an illegitimate daughter he'd never recognized, nor even met. But time (and Evie) had changed his perspective. And in his newly unfrozen heart, he wanted Joanna to get every penny. Even though…

"She may not accept it," he remarked.

"Of course she'll accept." Jason snorted into his scotch. "It's free money."

"Money cannot make up for a lifetime of anonymity."

The marquess' eyes chilled. "You know as well as I that Anne chose to raise her daughter in America, with another man as her father. It was not my decision. I merely honored it."

"Jacob Thorncroft died over six years ago. Had you loved Anne as much as you claim, then you'd have kept aware of–"

"How dare you question my devotion," Jason snarled, slapping his hand on the armrest of the chair. "I did love Anne. I loved her so much that I let her go, and I ensured our daughter's future financial security by giving Anne that blasted ring. Had you not taken it back, the Thorncrofts would have had wealth in perpetuity. You caused this. Not I."

As Weston met his father's steely, scornful gaze, he resisted the urge to shift in his chair. At five and twenty, how was it that he could still feel as if he were a lad of twelve, desperate for the marquess' approval…and withering beneath his contempt?

"I did nothing but return something to our family that never should have been bestowed outside of marriage," he said evenly. "Regardless of how strong your feelings were for Joanna's mother, the ring was not yours to give away. There were other means you could have used to provide for her and your daughter. Had you married Anne–"

"Do you think I didn't try?" Without warning, the marquess hurtled his empty glass of scotch across the room. It struck the wall and shattered, bits of glass exploding in a shower of crystal. "I asked her to marry me a dozen times. But she couldn't live in this life, and I couldn't leave it. So she left. With our child in her belly. And then…even then, I held out hope…" His countenance ravaged by desolation, Jason tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. "But she died of scarlet fever, and my hope died with her."

Weston stared at his father, stunned into speechlessness. Never, in his entire life, had he seen the marquess display this much emotion. He hadn't even known Jason was capable of feeling this strongly. But apparently, he was. Apparently, for his deceased mistress, he'd felt everything…until Anne's death robbed him of all compassion.

"You still had me," Weston said quietly. "You had me and Brynne. Your children."

"You were given the best tutors and nannies and governesses that money could buy."

"A tutor is not a father. A nanny is not a father. A governess is not a father."

The marquess slowly lowered his chin, and regarded his son with a heavy gaze. "I'd lost my wife, and the woman I loved. I was not in any shape to be a father when you and your sister were young. And as you grew older…as you grew older, it was easier to stay away. To distance myself from anything and anyone that reminded me of what it felt like…"

"What it felt like to what?" Weston asked when his father fell silent.

Jason closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were filled with an anguish so bleak that Weston felt the strike of it in his own heart. "What it felt like to love."

Evie had tried to smile and nod her way through the rest of the evening as if nothing was amiss, but when she continued to catch herself searching for Weston's familiar face amidst the sea of guests, she knew it was time to retire to her room for the night.

Bidding farewell to Rosemary, she made her way upstairs where she was greeted by Posy, bouncing on the middle of the bed.

"Poor thing," she murmured when the lamb gave an excited bleat and launched herself off the mattress. Scooping Posy up into her arms, Evie pressed her face into the lamb's soft white fur and sighed. "You haven't gotten much attention today, have you? Not with all that's gone on. It's not fair for you to be stuck in this room all day while I'm doing other things. As soon as you're a bit bigger, we'll have to see about putting you out to live with the other sheep. Would you like that?"

Posy butted her head into the middle of Evie's chest, causing Evie to laugh. As soon as she did, the tension she'd been unconsciously carrying with her ever since leaving Weston in the gardens began to unravel, and after fetching a cloak to cover her gown, she carried Posy outside for a final romp before bed.

Using the servants' stairs so as not to disturb the ongoing revelry in the drawing room, she set the lamb on the grass, already damp with dew, and smiled with warm, cozy delight as Posy gamboled across the lawn, kicking and bucking.

"She's getting bigger," Weston remarked from the shadows, and Evie nearly fell as she spun around to face him and the flat soles of her shoes slipped on the wet grass.

"What–what are you doing lurking about?" she gasped, pressing a hand to her pounding heart.

"You mean what am I doing enjoying some fresh air while standing outside on the grounds of my estate?" he asked, a dark brow rising as he stepped away from the wall of climbing ivy that he'd blended so effortlessly into that she'd walked right past him without noticing his presence.

She gave a clipped nod. "You're right. It is your estate. I'll just fetch Posy, and we'll–"

"Don't go," Weston said hoarsely, and the raw, haunted glimpse of vulnerability she saw in the depths of his gaze made her heart ache. "Please."

"What happened?" she whispered, fingertips gliding across his temple as she pushed a lock of inky black hair out of his eyes.

He leaned into the palm of her hand. "My father has paid me an unexpected visit."

"Oh. I…I understand." She didn't. Not really. How could she, when he'd hardly spoken of his father at all? Everything she knew about Weston's relationship with the marquess had come from a third party. But she didn't need to be privy to every intimate detail to see that he was hurting.

And that he needed her to comfort him.

"It's all right," she murmured soothingly. "It's going to be all right."

"I need…" He trembled; a hard jolt that traveled the length of his entire body. Lifting his head, he spanned her waist with his hands. "I need you, Evelyn."

She was still frustrated with him. Irritated. Mayhap even a little angry. But how could she deny him such a request when it seemed as if his very life depended on it? Especially when she needed him just as much.

If not more.

The dark scruff on his jaw scraped against her skin as she grasped the sides of his face and rose up onto her toes. A brief, searching look into his eyes and then she pressed her lips to his.

At first, the kiss was soft. Gentle. Almost delicate, like the underside of a rose petal. But it wasn't long before the spark between them caught fire, and they were both basking in the glow of the flames.

Madness in the moonlight, she thought dimly as his tongue slid between her lips and her nails dug into the nape of his neck.

Their kiss was feverish.

Desperate.

Daring.

Anyone could have glanced out the window or walked out the door and seen them, but Evie didn't care. Neither, it seemed, did Weston. Their only concern was each other…their only care was how fast they could sate the restless yearning building inside of them.

He backed her up against the side of the manor where ivy climbed a wooden trellis. Glossy green leaves tangled in her hair as Weston captured both of her wrists and raised her arms above her head, leaving her helplessly exposed to his ravenous, carnal appetite.

"Evelyn. Evelyn. Sweet Evelyn." He repeated her name as if it were a prayer as his mouth skimmed down her throat. She writhed against him, instinctively arching her hips so that all the pulsing heat centered between her thighs rubbed against his hard, throbbing arousal.

He kissed his way to her breasts, impatiently shoving the folds of her cloak aside so that he could suckle her nipples through the sheer layers of fabric that comprised her bodice. When he dropped to his knees and released her arms, she helped him yank up her skirts and quivered like a bowstring drawn taut at that first electric touch of his tongue against the most intimate, sensitive part of her entire body.

Her head thrashed against the ivy as he pleasured her, first with his mouth, and then with his fingers, and then both at the same time in an undulating rhythm that sent her spiraling into oblivion with such savage speed she hardly had time to catch her breath before he drove her off the edge again…and again.

When he rose to his feet and sought his own release with his hand, she clung to him, burrowing her face into the valley beneath the slant of his collarbone. And when it was over, when their desires were finally sated, they clung to each other as their harsh breathing stained the air and their heartbeats gradually slowed.

Without a word, Weston helped her straighten her dress and fix the lay of her cloak so that it concealed her breasts and the wet circles his wicked tongue had left behind before he shoved his shirttails back into his trousers and adjusted his jacket.

"Thank you," he said, tenderly brushing a curl off her cheek.

"For what?" she asked, tilting her head back.

"For being there when I needed you most. Evelyn, I–"

But much to Evie's annoyance, whatever he was about to say would have to wait, for with a spill of light and a shout of laughter a trio of drunken guests spilled out of the servants' entrance.

"I say," said the man in the middle, peering out into the darkness. "Is that a wolf?"

"Don't be silly," said the woman beside him. "It's clearly a cat."

"A cat wolf?" the third, another woman, slurred. "Never ‘eard of it."

"Actually," Evie chimed in as she left Weston standing in the shadows, "it is a lamb. Her name is Posy."

"Posy," the man repeated.

"Told you it wasn't a wolf," said his companion, nudging him in the ribs.

"I knew that," he said defensively.

"Come along now, Posy. It's time for bed." Evie patted her thigh, and the lamb obediently bounced over. Casting a discreet glance over her shoulder, she met Weston's gray, possessive gaze…and with the curving hint of a smile, she scooped Posy into her arms and went inside.

Evie woke at dawn the next day. She knew that Weston took an early ride each morning, and she wanted to try to meet him upon his return before everyone gathered for breakfast in the solarium.

She dressed with great care, mulling over her wardrobe for the better part of an hour before she settled on a frothy pink gown with satin stripes on the skirt and silk flower trim along the bodice.

The dress was far more suitable for a ball than a breakfast, but it wasn't every day a woman became engaged to the man she loved! And after their encounter by the trellis, she knew, she just knew, that Weston was going to ask her to marry him. Or, if not an outright proposal, surely he would confess his feelings. His real feelings. Because surely he never could have displayed such wrenching vulnerability to someone he only cared about.

He loved her.

She was convinced that he did.

And after this morning, she'd have the words she needed to validate giving him her heart to have and to hold.

"You're up early, Miss Thorncroft," Mrs. Grimsby, the housekeeper, noted as Evie all but floated down the main staircase. "And don't you look nice! Pretty as a painting, dear."

"Thank you," Evie beamed. "It's a beautiful morning, isn't it?"

"It is nice to see the sun after all that rain," Mrs. Grimsby agreed. "The birds are happy as well. I've rarely heard them chirping this loud. Is there anything I can help you with, Miss Thorncroft?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Has Lord Hawkridge returned from his ride yet?"

"Oh, he didn't go on his ride this morning."

That gave Evie pause. "He didn't?"

"No. If you are looking for a word, I believe he is in the music room. At least, that's where he was the last time I walked by."

It was all Evie could do not to jump with excitement. "Thank you, Mrs. Grimsby!"

"Wait!" the housekeeper said with some alarm. "He's not–"

But whatever Mrs. Grimsby said was drowned out by the excited elated buzzing in Evie's ears as she picked up her skirts and dashed off down the hall.

She found the door to the music room slightly ajar. Out of habit born from eavesdropping on her sisters, she peered through the tiny gap in the wood before she announced her presence…and all of the blood drained from her face at what she saw.

At first, she didn't believe it.

She blinked.

Rubbed her eyes.

Even pinched herself again, just to make sure she wasn't dreaming.

But this was no dream.

It was a waking nightmare.

For there, in the middle of the room on a blue velvet sofa, sat Lady Martha Smethwick. And beside her, down on bended knee, was Weston.

Biting her lip to stifle her cry of dismay, Evie stumbled back from the door.

And then she ran.

All the way to London.