Chapter Three

Evie hadn't even realized she'd fallen asleep until a hard jolt startled her awake.

"What…?" Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she sat up and swiped a hand across her chin. Goodness. Had she been drooling? Perish the thought. "What's happened?"

"We've cracked an axle," Weston replied tersely.

She sat up a little straighter. "That doesn't sound good."

"It isn't." He began to pull on his gloves as the carriage limped to the side of the road and rolled to an unceremonious halt. "Especially since we're three miles from the nearest inn."

"Three miles? I–where are you going?" she demanded when he pushed open the door.

"To help the driver." In a single lithe motion, Weston leapt from the carriage and landed in several inches of mud, its thick consistency most likely responsible for their cracked axle.

"Wait!" she called, scrambling across her seat. "You cannot just leave me here."

After flicking a spot of wet dirt off his coat, he gave her a cool smile. "Oh, but I can."

With that, he slammed the door in her face, leaving her to glare out the window at him as he made his way around the front of the cumbersome town coach to where the horses were nervously prancing in place.

On a huff of breath, Evie flopped back and crossed her arms. She knew Weston didn't like her, but did he have to treat her as he would a child?

When they were dancing together at the Countess of Beresford's ball he hadn't treated her like a child. Before she told him her name, their banter had been flirtatiously playful. And the heat in his gaze had burned hot enough to scorch the entire room.

Part of her wished they could return to that moment in time when neither one of them had known who the other was. When there was nothing between them but raw, unapologetic attraction and the seductive whisper of lust. Oh, what might have been if they'd remained anonymous! Another dance, perhaps even a venture out into the moonlit gardens where the air was heavy with the scent of gardenias and temptation.

But instead of flowers and moonlight, she had a crippled carriage and mud.

Hardly the ingredients for a blossoming romance.

Biting down hard on the inside of her cheek, Evie eyed the door. She considered joining West outside, but the only traveling habit she had, a plain, long-sleeved beige jacket with matching skirt and modest bustle, was the one that she was wearing, and she didn't want to dirty it. But neither did she want to remain inside a carriage that was growing warmer by the second. Maybe if she opened a window, the wait would become more bearable and she could hear what the earl and the driver were discussing. As it stood, their muffled voices provided no insight into how long they might find themselves stuck in the ditch.

She'd just begun to fidget with the latch holding the glass pane shut when the door was abruptly yanked outward and Weston poked his head in.

"Gather your things," he said grimly. "We're going to walk."

"Walk?" she repeated, incredulous. "But you said the nearest town was three miles away!"

Something indecipherable flickered in the depths of his cold gray gaze. "By all means, stay here with the driver and the horses. Another carriage should be round before nightfall to collect you."

He started to close the door. Would have closed it, if Evie hadn't thrust her foot out.

"I am not going to sit here for hours in hopes that help might arrive before it gets dark." She extended her arm, wrist gracefully bent and fingers pointed. "If you'd be so kind as to assist me, I'll–ahhh!"

With all the care of a butcher tossing a slab of beef onto his shoulder, Weston grabbed her hand and pulled. Caught unprepared and off balance, she shrieked as she fell straight towards the watery muck, her arms flapping wildly in the air.

At the last possible second, the earl grasped her by the waist and set her on her feet, his thumbs digging into the jut of her hipbones as he scowled down at her.

"You're impossible," he growled, as if it were somehow her fault she'd nearly ended up with a mouthful of mud!

"Me?" Glaring up at him beneath the brim of her bonnet, a narrow concoction of silk and ribbon that sat low over her brow and was held in place by a bow that ran beneath her chignon, she struggled to rein in her temper.

Unlike Joanna, who always spoke her mind, Evie had learned at an early age that it was often advantageous to keep her opinion to herself. Particularly if that opinion reflected negatively on the only person in a three-mile radius who knew where they were going.

Up ahead, the main thoroughfare branched into three separate roads, and she had a feeling that if she picked the wrong one that she could be committing herself to wandering the countryside for the next several hours.

"Is there something you'd like to say, Miss Thorncroft?" Weston asked, blatantly searching for a reason–any reason–to leave her behind.

Unfortunately for the earl, she had no intention of giving him any excuse to leave her sitting in the carriage. Until they reached their final destination, she would strive to be on her very best behavior. However, if the opportunity presented itself to shove her traveling companion into a watery ditch and giggle mercilessly as he climbed out of it…well, she was only human.

And an occasionally vindictive one, at that.

Despite her delicate build, love of fashion, and general abhorrence of anything icky (including, but not limited to, mud), Evie's sugary smile disguised a woman who was ruthless in her pursuit of what she wanted. She may have been small and weak in stature, but her determination was as strong as iron, and she wasn't going to stop until she had the three things she desired most: a wealthy husband, her mother's ring, and the respect of her peers.

She rather thought it was to her credit that she'd found a way to get all three at once…and become a countess in the process. Although if she'd had the choice, she would have vastly preferred one of her malleable Somerville admirers to the ill-tempered Earl of Hawkridge.

They'd not shared each other's company for any considerable length of time, but she intuitively sensed that he was not a simple-minded dandy whose eyes would cross and tongue would wag at the sight of a discreetly flashed ankle. Courting him–and convincing him to propose–was going to be a great challenge. Perhaps the greatest of her lifetime, excluding the gloomy months following her father's death.

But Evie was not daunted by the uphill battle that awaited her.

Instead, she found herself invigorated by it.

Not to say that she wouldn't prefer Weston drop to his knees and declare his undying love. It would certainly make her ascension to British nobility an easier ride than the bumpy, axle-breaking journey she currently found herself on. But she'd never shied away from a little adversity before, and she wasn't about to start now. Thorncroft women were made of stern stock, and they'd overcome far more difficult obstacles than arrogant, scowling earls.

Speaking of which…

"Why, I was just going to compliment you on your amazingly quick reflexes, my lord." Batting her lashes, she gave a simpering smile that had been practiced and perfected in the cracked mirror hanging on her bedroom wall. "You are surely a gallant knight sent from above, and I could not have asked for a better champion to keep me safe on the arduous trek that awaits us."

Her gallant knight loomed above her, suspicion clouding his gaze and a muscle pulsing in his jaw. "I do not know what game you are playing, Miss Thorncroft, but I can assure you that I want no part of it."

"I'll be the first to admit I enjoy a good round of solitaire now and again," she said. "But as I haven't any cards with me at the moment, I am afraid I don't know to what game you are referring, Lord Hawkridge."

Delivering a flat, humorless laugh, Weston released his grip on her and stepped away.

"If you don't keep up," he said curtly, "you can stay behind."

And with that uplifting note of encouragement, he headed off down the road, leading Evie to impulsively stick her tongue out at his back before she picked up her skirts and hurried after him.

Weston walked for the better part of a mile before he allowed himself to steal a sideways glance at Evie. To his surprise–and reluctant admiration–she'd managed to keep pace with his longer stride, but she looked far from happy about it.

Suppressing an unexpected grin at her disheveled appearance, he held up his arm and motioned for her to follow him into the shade of an oak whose thick branches provided a welcome relief from the unrelenting sun.

"We can stop here for a minute to catch our breath," he said brusquely. "Then we'll continue on."

"How much further?" Evie groaned, swatting at a tendril of hair that had come loose from her chignon and was tickling the side of her neck where a layer of perspiration caused her ivory skin to gleam in the dappled light.

Inside the carriage, she'd been the epitome of ladylike perfection. Every ebony tendril had been artfully arranged, her habit had carried nary a wrinkle, and her tiny bonnet had been tidily pinned to the middle of her head.

But now, after twenty minutes of walking in the unseasonably warm autumn heat, her skirts had wilted, her hat was dangling low over her left brow, and her color was high; her cheeks as rosy as two ripe apples.

Two ripe apples that Weston suddenly and inexplicably wanted to bite into.

Would she taste sweet or tart? A combination, if he had to guess. Like a chameleon, Evelyn Thorncroft had the unique ability to change her demeanor at will. But he found that of all the Evie's he had encountered thus far (the coquettish Evie at the ball, the smirking Evie outside his townhouse, the suspiciously agreeable Evie in his carriage), he preferred this version of her the best.

This rumpled, hot, sticky version that had peeled away her carefully constructed polished veneer to reveal a glimpse at the raw, authentic woman beneath. The woman, he suspected, not many people ever had the chance to see.

"We've only gone a mile," he said, and found himself struggling not to chuckle when Evie's plump lips parted in dismay. As someone not given to great bursts of humor, it was an uncharacteristic reaction. One that caught him off guard, and caused him to frown.

Evelyn Thorncroft was his enemy. An opportunistic, scheming shrew who had taken advantage of his sister's cordial nature and all but forced herself upon him for the next four weeks. If she lasted that long. Weston hadn't told Brynne, but he had every intention of making Evie's stay at Hawkridge Manor so miserable that she was begging to leave within a fortnight, if not sooner.

The American was a problem he didn't want. Especially now that she was invoking unwanted…feelings inside of him. And when Weston found himself faced with a problem, there was only one thing to do.

Eradicate it.

"A mile?" she exclaimed, gazing at him disbelief. "It feels as if we've walked for ages!"

"We have at least another two to go." Not the list bit sympathetic to her discomfort (he had offered to let her stay in the carriage), Weston removed a silver plated flask from the inside pocket of his coat and took a swig. "Maybe three."

"Three more miles?" At that, Evie's legs crumpled beneath her and she sank to the ground in a plume of tan skirts, tangled hair, and despair. "Can't we wait here for another carriage to come along?"

"We could," he acknowledged. "But if one did not, we'd soon find ourselves stranded out in the elements after sunset."

"What about Lady Brynne?" Evie said hopefully. "Surely she'll be along."

"My sister suffers from traveling sickness, and takes a less direct route where the roads are wider and more smoothly grated."

"Well why didn't we go that way?"

He smiled thinly. "Because I desired to divest myself of your company as quickly as possible. If you're done resting, we need to continue on."

"Help me up," she said, extending her arm.

Of its own accord, Weston's gaze dropped to her hand. Without his noticing, she'd removed her gloves while they were walking. Her fingers were long and elegant, her nails filed to a rounded edge. She may not have borne the title of a lady, but she had the soft, lily-white hands of one. Or so he thought before she turned her wrist with an impatience flick and he saw the rough calluses on her palm.

As he couldn't fathom Evie doing any sort of manual labor, he wondered what had put them there. By all impressions, she was a pampered Boston socialite without a care in the world. But those blisters belonged to someone who had endured hardship. Someone who had used their hands in such a repetitive manner that their skin had literally died and then hardened.

They didn't hurt, calluses.

From years of riding, Weston's hands were riddled with them.

But then, he wasn't a woman.

And maybe…maybe Evie wasn't the woman he'd assumed she was. Namely, a spoiled brat who'd had her shiny toy taken away and, on a frivolous whim, had sailed across the ocean to get it back. Out of boredom, and spite, and a general lack of respect for the fact that the ring she'd asked him to return belonged to his mother, not hers.

But what if she wasn't here because she wanted to be?

What if she was here because she needed to be?

What if the ring wasn't a merely a token, but a means for survival? After all, the only reason his investigators had found it in the first place (aside from sheer luck) was because Evie and her sisters had brought it to a jeweler in an attempt to have it appraised. Which they wouldn't have done unless they had plans to sell it. But why part with the ring now after having it in their possession all these years?

It didn't make any sense.

Unless the Thorncrofts found themselves in dire straits…and desperate for money.

His brow furrowing, he made himself look at Evie. Really look. Something he hadn't done since he had first seen her across a crowded ballroom where her breathtaking beauty had called to him like a siren singing out to a sailor. Right before she caused the poor bloke to dash his ship upon the rocky shoreline.

For the first time, he noticed that her traveling habit was nearly worn threadbare in several places and the buckles on her shoes were tarnished and old. She wore no jewelry, not even a modest pair of pearl earrings or an agate brooch, and the feathers on her hat had clearly been replaced more than once, the remnants of past thread not matching the new.

"Is there something on my face?" she asked, self-consciously swiping her thumb along her bottom lip.

"No," he said gruffly.

"You're staring."

So he was. Averting his gaze, Weston held out his arm and waited until he felt the slight weight of her fingers pressing into his hand before he briskly hauled her to her feet. He knew he was being a tad rough with her. Rough on her. But the alternative–kindness, compassion, understanding–was not an option for the cold-hearted earl. Poor or not (and closer inspection had revealed that Evie was the very definition of genteel poverty), she was a thorn in his side that he couldn't wait to be rid of.

And now he had his solution.

Weston was a shrewd businessman, not a kind philanthropist, but he had donated a lofty percentage of his inherited wealth over the past decade to a variety of charitable organizations running the gamut from orphanages to hospitals. Evie was no charity, but if throwing money at her removed the vexing chit from his sight, what did it matter to him?

No to mention that his father, the Marquess of Dorchester, was likely to settle a large amount on his bastard, Joanna Thorncroft, whenever news reached of him of her arrival in London and the subsequent stir that had been created after the ton learned that the marquess' American mistress had given him a daughter.

Brynne may have wanted to become acquainted with their half-sister, but Weston had no such illusions regarding loving family reunions. For the love of God, they couldn't even function properly as a family of three. Why the devil would they want to bring Americans into the mix?

By all accounts, Joanna was on her way back across the Atlantic.

Good riddance, as far as he was concerned.

But that still left Evie to contend with. The most dangerous of the Thorncrofts, to his mind, solely because she wasn't his half-sister. There was no blood shared between them. Meaning there was nothing to keep him from sinking his fingers into all those messy obsidian curls, pressing her against the oak tree…and ravishing her senseless.

Weston had never realized how closely lust and loathing were intertwined before he'd found himself tempted by a dark-haired hellion with the clear, crystal blue eyes of an angel.

"You're staring again," the hellion angel said crossly. "Has your mind been addled by the sun? It would explain a lot. Including why you'd lead us to be stranded twenty miles from the nearest village when there was another perfectly good road at our disposal."

"We're three miles," he corrected. "And it's hardly my fault the axle broke. I've gone this way a hundred times before and never had any issue. If there is blame to be given out, I assign it to you."

Evie frowned. "What did I do?"

Everything, he thought crossly.

And nothing.

Weston was a hard man. A heart of stone, his last mistress had said after he'd ended their eighteen-month affair with all the pomp and circumstance of dashing a cheque off to his tailor. But he was also a fair one. He acknowledged that in her mind, Evie believed the ring she sought rightfully belonged to her and her sisters. He couldn't fault her for wanting it back. Not if his suspicions were true, and its return was necessary to their very survival.

Neither could he fault her for his own desires. Aside from a flirtatious exchange at the ball before either had realized just who the other was, she had not done anything to fan the flames of his ardor.

Why, then, had he pictured her naked more times in the past two hours than he ever had Lady Martha, whom he'd known for two years?

His unparalleled attraction to Evie was as infuriating as it was baffling.

And he needed it to end before he did something he'd soundly regret...like making good on his fantasy to kiss her.

Which was why, as soon as they finally got to Hawkridge Manor, he was going to pull her aside and offer her a ghastly amount of money to hop on the next sailing vessel bound for Boston and never return.

He'd do it now, of course.

There wasn't a single reason not to.

Except…except he didn't want to upset Brynne.

Yes, that was it, Weston told himself.

For some reason, his sister wished to forge a friendship with Evie, and who was he to deny her such a small, insignificant request?

Especially this near to her birthday.

In seven months.

"Just drink this," he growled, thrusting his flask at Evie. "The last thing I need is you fainting from dehydration."

Warily accepting the flask, she raised it to her nose and gave a delicate sniff. Her gaze flew to his. "Is this brandy?"

"What else would it be?" he said impatiently.

"It's eleven in the morning!"

"And?"

"Fine." Tilting her head back, she took a sip from the flask, gave a cough, and then (to Weston's amusement and slight alarm) indulged in a deep swig that would have done a sailor proud.

"All right." He snatched the flask away from her. "That's enough."

Eyes watering, Evie gave another cough. "I've had wine before, but never brandy. It's rather strong, isn't it? Like drinking fire and smoke, all wrapped into one." She smiled at him. "The aftertaste is quite pleasant."

"Bloody hell," he muttered, shaking his head even as the corners of his lips twitched reluctantly. Evie was no bigger than a teacup. When he'd lifted her out of the carriage, his hands had easily spanned her waist. A sip or two of his best cognac, which he had directly imported from Charente, France, and he wouldn't be surprised to see her toddling on her feet.

But when they set off back on the road, her gait was remarkably steady, her bustle lightly flouncing as her hips swayed rhythmically from side to side.

Not that he was looking at her hips.

Or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter.

Definitely not the rounded curve of her breasts. Or the slender line of her neck. Or the tips of her earlobes peeking out from beneath her heavy curtain of hair.

Who knew ears could be so damned attractive?

Scowling, Weston deliberately lengthened his stride as he banished any and all lascivious thoughts regarding one Miss Evelyn Thorncroft to the back of his mind where, God willing, he'd be able to keep them until she was gone.

A week, he vowed to himself as they trudged past a field spotted with white, fluffy sheep who lifted their heads in collective curiosity, unaccustomed to seeing humans strolling down the carriage path out in the middle of nowhere.

He would allow Brynne a week with Evie, to gossip and play whist and do whatever it was that women did when they were together. Compare recipes, work on their embroidery, conjure Lucifer…who knew, really?

Seven days, and then he'd do what Weston men did best when they were faced with something they had no interest in dealing with. Mistresses, wives, children. The answer was always the same.

Toss money at the problem and hope it disappeared.