Chapter Eight

The rest of the journey to Hawkridge Manor passed without incident. Riding in the growler, while a far cry from the resplendent luxury of the town coach, was much more preferable than walking. Especially given the distance they'd yet to go. At least nine miles, Weston had told Evie in a clipped tone when she'd inquired. An arduous task on foot, to be certain, but much easier to accomplish when being pulled along behind a horse.

Inside the growler that smelled heavily of floral perfume with a hint of cigar smoke, Evie and Weston sat facing the same direction. Posy dozed on the floor between them, snuggled into the bed Evie had constructed using the remnants of her traveling habit.

While the lamb slept, the human occupants of the carriage were careful to avoid any motion that might possibly be conceived as an acknowledgement of the other. They hadn't spoken a word since boarding the growler, which was just fine with Evie. After the way Weston had treated her at the tavern, she did not have anything to say to him. At least nothing of a complimentary nature.

Thus they traveled the remainder of the way in brittle silence, each lost to their own brooding thoughts as the road sloped down and then up again in a winding path that carried them over a clear babbling brook and along a stone wall covered in moss.

Despite the tight knot of tension in the middle of her chest, Evie couldn't help but be charmed by the natural beauty unraveling in all directions like a spool of ribbon let undone. The landscape reminded her of the fields at home, all soft and green and glistening with raindrops that had since given way to clear blue skies and sunshine. There were more forests in Somerville; the land wasn't nearly as developed as this. But there was something undeniably magical to be found in the hills and valleys of England's sprawling countryside.

If only she could say the same of her traveling companion.

Tongue darting between her lips, Evie dared a sideways glance at the earl. And was startled to discover him looking straight her, heavy brows drawn in an expression of vague perplexity, as if he were studying at a puzzle whose last piece was proving elusive.

"What?" she said, self-consciously brushing a curl behind her ear. She knew that between her braid and the wool dress, she held all the appeal of a peasant. But Weston didn't have to point it out by staring. "Do I've something on my face?"

He shook his head. "We've been on the grounds of the estate for the past mile. Before we reach the manor, I think it wise that we discuss our behavior these past two days, and how we might conduct ourselves going forward."

Evie's eyes widened in surprise. Everything surrounding them–the meadows, the brook, the stone wall–was Weston's? There must have been thousands of acres. It was nearly unfathomable that one man could lay claim to such an enormous expanse of land. But even in a plain, ill-fitting jacket and sans vest or cravat, there was no mistaking the earl for a commoner. He wore his nobility like a second skin. No matter what clothes were on his person, he could not change the regal composition of his countenance or the bold assurance with which he carried himself.

Of course all of this belonged to him.

Evie had seen the noblemen who felt the need to prove their superiority with checkered trousers and neck cloths of flamboyant green and swallowtail coats that cinched at the waist. Rather like male cardinals showing off their feathery red plumage.

But Lord Hawkridge was not some twittering songbird.

He was a hawk.

Fierce and imposing.

"What more would you like to discuss?" she asked, tempering her tone to reveal none of the anger or the raw, restless attraction she felt for the man seated beside her. "I believe you made your opinion quite clear before we left the tavern. A she-devil just waiting to sink her claws into someone, wasn't it?"

He didn't even have the good grace to look away, but instead met her accusatory stare without blinking and said, "I never called you a she-devil."

She gave a derisive flick of her wrist. "I am sure you've thought it."

"Yes. I have." Now he sat back and directed his gaze to the passing scenery outside his square window partially obscured by a drape steeped in dust. "You're a difficult woman, Miss Thorncroft. In any manner of ways. I say that as a compliment," he added when her nostrils flared. "Not an insult. The ladies I am acquainted with do not have nearly so many…layers as you do. You're like an onion."

"An onion," she repeated. "And you are not trying to insult me?"

"Onions are strong, solid stock. They can be used in any variety of soups, broths, and salads. They're excellent sautéed in garlic and served alongside liver." He glanced at her, saw her expression, and frowned. "I can see I am not making myself clear."

"Oh, as clear as liver," she said sweetly.

"What I am trying to say, Miss Thorncroft, is that you…you are much more than what you appear on the surface. Like an onion–"

"I believe this would go better for all parties involved if you stopped comparing me to a root vegetable."

A wry grin settled upon his lips, like the first layer of snow falling on the ground. The sort that made you look twice, because you couldn't believe it was really there. "You're probably right, Miss Thorncroft. I…what?" Now he was the one who ran his fingers through his hair. "Do I've something on my face?"

"No, it's just…I finally understand why you scowl with such frequency," she said in a choked little voice, her gaze transfixed by the roguish tilt of his mouth.

"And why is that?" he asked.

"Because you are absolutely devastating when you smile." Her eyes rose. "It's unfair, really. That such a grumpy, cantankerous man should be in possession of such a mesmerizing grin."

"Grumpy and cantankerous?"

"You called me an onion and said I'd pair well with liver," she reminded him.

The earl winced. "Not my best attempt at flattery."

"Is that what you were trying to do?" Her head tilted in amusement. "Pray tell, do you tell Lady Martha Smethwick she has hair like carrots and eyes that look like broccoli florets?"

When his smile abruptly faded and his gaze shuttered, Evie could have kicked herself. Weston hadn't earned himself any favors by comparing her to an onion of all things, but bringing another woman into the conversation was even worse. Especially when that woman was someone Weston had an interest in marrying.

Evie did not know very much about Martha Smethwick. No more than what Brynne had told her, which was that the lady was pretty, and polite, and dreadfully boring.

"She'll be at the house party with her mother in tow," Brynne had shared with all the enthusiasm of someone who had just sucked on a lemon. "While my brother hasn't formally declared his intentions, it is only a matter of time. He is not getting any younger, and Lady Martha is impeccably bred. She will make a splendid countess, albeit a dull sister-in-law."

"You make it sound as if she's a prized thoroughbred," Evie had said, to which Brynne sighed.

"Isn't that exactly what we are?"

Over the past two days, Evie hadn't allowed herself to dwell on the impeccably bred Lady Martha Smethwick. She really didn't know why she'd brought her up now, except that there was a part of her that had wanted to see Weston's reaction to the mention of his not-yet-formally-declared fiancée. Especially since they would soon all be at Hawkridge Manor together. A merry family comprised of a surly earl with the smile of an angel, a perfect lady with the bloodlines of a horse, and the most versatile of all root vegetables.

How splendid.

"Lady Martha's hair is blonde, not orange, and I don't know what color her eyes are." Weston's fingers drummed along the windowsill in an impatient rat-a-tat-tat. "Miss Thorncroft, I want to–"

"You don't know what color her eyes are?" Evie interrupted. "I was under the impression you and Lady Martha were going to…that is, you plan to propose."

"I do," he said and to her credit, Evie did not flinch. "But I fail to see what a marriage proposal has anything to do with eye color. Miss Thorncroft, before we reach Hawkridge Manor I'd like to take the opportunity to establish some–"

"What color are mine?" she asked, pinching her eyelids together.

"What are you talking about?" he said irritably.

"My eyes." Were they open, Evie would have rolled them. "What color are my eyes?"

"This is ridiculous."

"Just answer the question. Unless you can't," she challenged. "In which case, I shall graciously permit you to admit defeat."

"Blue," he snapped. "Your eyes are blue."

"There. Was that so–"

"Except when you are angry, and then they're the color of velvet midnight. Or when you're happy, and looking at you is like gazing at a cloudless sky on the first day of spring when the air smells like honeysuckle and the soil is ripe with possibility."

Evie did not know what to say.

For the first time in her life, she found herself rendered completely and utterly speechless.

It was a strange feeling. Almost as strange as the sensation of tumbling backwards even though her feet were planted firmly on the floor of the carriage. But maybe that was what falling in love was meant to be like. Not a falling in the literal sense, as that would be far too messy. But rather an abrupt loss of all common sense that left the mind inwardly flailing for balance. For surely there was nothing logical about being in love with Weston. There was nothing logical about love, period. But it was especially nonsensical when it involved a man whose concept of adulation revolved around a scallion.

And yet...

"We're here," he said brusquely, and Evie's eyes flew open.

The growler was passing beneath an arched section of the stone wall that was just barely high enough to accommodate its sloped roof, leading her to conclude they were accessing the estate via a side entrance. She craned her neck, seeking an unfettered view of the main house through the bushes and the brambles that had become as much a part of the wall as the stone itself.

They crested a short knoll and then there it was, Hawkridge Manor. Her initial impression was that it was smaller than she'd anticipated, but then the carriage continued on past the front and she saw, with wide eyes, that the gray sandstone extended far beyond the initial footprint to include a rambling addition, a solarium made almost entirely of glass, and a multi-tiered terrace with its own spiral staircase spinning up out of an artfully designed garden of roses.

The roof was slate with peaked dormers and matching brick chimneys on either side. Ivy crawled along the walls, making it difficult to discern where the stately house ended and the gardens began. Wide marble pathways, meticulously groomed and gleaming white in the afternoon sun, cut through all the greenery like pearl ribbons stitched to the hemline of an emerald gown.

There were several fountains, the biggest of which sat in the middle of the circular drive and sprayed water out of the pursed lips of a playful cherub, nude save for the granite cloth draped around its round hips.

For Evie, who was accustomed to sturdy colonial architecture, the romanticism of Hawkridge Manor was marvelously endearing. She couldn't wait to see what the interior held. Specifically the ballroom, and the parlor, and her bedchamber. Oh, to sleep in a real bed again! With proper pillows stuffed with goose down and a mattress filled with wool and horsehair. It was going to be wonderful. And if not for the house party, she might have been tempted to disappear into her room for at least a week, rather like a bear seeking a cozy den for its hibernation.

But there was the house party to contend with. She could see the tents sprawled across the back lawn from here, colorful flags waving in the breeze as a herd of servants moved hastily about setting up chairs and tables and unrolling carpets so that the ladies' heels wouldn't sink into the grass.

"How many guests are you expecting?" she asked, slanting a peek at Weston out of the corner of her eye as the growler lurched to a halt underneath the dappled shade of a large elm tree and the driver came round to open her door.

"More than I'd like," said Weston curtly. "The housekeeper, Mrs. Grimsby, will know what room you're staying in if my sister is not readily available. Should you require anything during your stay, you may defer to her.

"If the town coach has preceded us here, your trunks should have already been brought upstairs. If not, I'll see that they are delivered with all haste once they arrive. Meals are generally served in the solarium or out in the tents, the exception being the official receiving dinner which will be held tomorrow night in the formal dining room after all of the guests have arrived. If you are so inclined, you may also have platters brought directly to your chamber. Do you have any questions, Miss Thorncroft?"

"Yes," she said, as annoyed with the rigid formality of his welcome address–one he'd doubtless delivered a hundred times before–as she'd been with his barbed cruelty at the tavern.

How can you be a wordsmith one minute and an emotionless cad the next?

How can you kiss me senseless and still look at me as if I were a stranger?

"Miss Thorncroft?" Weston prompted.

"Never mind." Making use of the stepping crate the driver had thoughtfully placed beneath the door, Evie descended from the carriage with all the graceful aplomb of a young queen. She may have worn the attire of a common scullery maid, but that did not mean she had to perform the part. Similarly, she may have been losing her heart to the earl, but that did not mean she had any obligation to act on her feelings. Not until she'd managed to regain some of her balance, at least.

A bath, a nap, and a change of clothes, she decided. That would help return her to her old self and steer her away from this bewildering, doe-eyed debutante who suddenly fancied herself in love just because Weston had said her irises reminded him of velvet midnight and honeysuckle.

"I shall see you at the receiving dinner, my lord." Chin held high, she reached into the carriage, picked up Posy, and sailed off towards the house in search of Mrs. Grimsby.

Weston waited until Evie was out of sight before he dismounted from the growler and flagged down a passing footman dressed in navy blue livery.

"See that this man is paid," he said, nodding at the driver. "Include an excess of eight pounds to close an account I've opened at the Penn Street Tavern, and see that any personal belongings I have there are returned to me."

"Right away, my lord." The footman hurried away to find the butler, Mr. Stevens, who was the only other individual on the estate aside from Weston who had access to the coffers. While the vast majority of Weston's wealth was tied up in land and investments, with nearly all of his liquid assets held in London at the Bank of England, he kept several thousand pounds readily available. Whereas his peers relied on notes to extend their credit, often far exceeding the balances in their accounts, he preferred to pay for things outright. Debt–of any sort–had never set well with Weston.

That task accomplished, he set out to complete the next item on his list.

Confronting Brynne.

He found his twin where he'd expected she would be: in a gazebo behind the solarium, partially obscured behind a wall of evergreens. She was painting, her arm moving in fluid strokes across a canvas considerably larger than the one she'd been working on in London.

"Something new?" Weston asked, resting his foot on the bottom step of the gazebo.

With a gasp, Brynne dropped her brush and clasped both hands to the middle of her chest. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that!" she accused, leaning in her chair to glare at him around the edge of the painting. "You nearly frightened me half to death."

"And you shouldn't be so free to spread family business," he said mildly.

She picked up her paintbrush and dipped the bristles in a clear glass half-filled with water, releasing a cloud of red pigment. "What are you talking about? And where have you been? I've already dispatched two outriders and was going to send a third if I hadn't heard from you by dinner. Is Miss Thorncroft all right?"

He lifted a brow. "I'm well, thank you for asking."

"Obviously, or you wouldn't be standing here."

When had it become his lot in life, Weston wondered, to be surrounded by belligerent females?

"Miss Thorncroft is fine. We were delayed due to a broken axle. And a sheep," he added belatedly.

"Oh, did you hit one crossing the road?" Brynne said in dismay. "They're not the brightest, are they? The poor thing. I do hope it didn't suffer."

He crossed his arms. "You do realize you've just displayed more concern for a stranger and a sheep than your own brother."

"Miss Thorncroft is not a stranger. And sheep are very sweet. Unlike someone I know."

The caustic note in Brynne's voice had Weston lifting his other brow. While his sister was never afraid to speak her mind, she generally tempered her opinion with a more mild tone.

"Have I done something to offend you?" he queried.

"Yes," she said. Then she buried her face in her hands. "No. No. You haven't done anything. It's...it's this place. Being back here. You know it puts me on edge." She lowered her arms. "I still fail to understand why you would have ever wanted it."

"Because it's mine. Would you prefer it had gone to ruin?"

"Yes." Her hazel eyes flashed. "Yes, that is exactly what I'd like to happen…and exactly what this place deserves."

"I am sorry," he said gently. "But you know I cannot do that, sweetling."

Weston was well aware of his sister's feeling regarding Hawkridge Manor. He knew that while he saw it as his birthright, she looked at the plaster walls and saw a prison. While he and Brynne were not in the habit of keeping secrets from each other, she'd never told him of the years she'd spent confined here while he was away at Eton. He knew her time had been a misery only because of how much she detested returning. But she had never given him any specific details, even when he'd pressed.

"I know," she muttered, reaching for her brush. After wiping it dry on the cotton apron she wore over her dress, she dabbed the tip of the bristles in a vat of crimson paint and resumed her work. "At least the light is better here than in the city. It's so much clearer, and the days last longer without all the building and factories to block out the setting sun."

He nodded in agreement. Brynne may have despised Hawkridge Manor, but he'd invariably found a sense of solace here amidst the wandering streams and thick forests and undulating hills. He could hop on his favorite mount and ride for hours without running out of room, a freedom that did not exist amidst the crowded streets of London.

"What did you mean when you said I was spreading family business?" Brynne asked, her fair brow creasing in concentration as she focused on the middle of the canvas. Weston had no idea what she was painting, and he knew better than to ask. His sister was one of the kindest people he knew, but she'd happily scratch out the eyes of anyone who dared look at her artwork before it was finished.

"My pending engagement to Lady Martha," he said.

Brynne's brush hovered in midair. "What about it?"

"You told Miss Thorncroft."

"I didn't realize it was a secret."

"It's not."

"Then what is the issue?"

"The issue is that my private affairs are none of Miss Thorncroft's concern!" His shout was loud enough to startle a collection of sparrows in a nearby tree. Tiny wings flapping madly, they swooped low over the gazebo before vanishing into the heavy thicket of evergreens.

On a sigh, Brynne began painting again. "I may have mentioned, in passing, that you were considering a proposal. It was not a main topic of conversation, and I certainly was not ‘spreading family business' when you and Lady Martha are all but public knowledge. Unless something between the two of you has changed, that is. You are still planning on getting down on bended knee before the house party concludes, aren't you?"

"Yes," he said, ignoring the sharp twinge in his gut.

"That's a shame. I was hoping your time spent with Miss Thorncroft may have…altered your perspective on what you want out of a marriage. Not to mention given you the opportunity to reflect on our little chat before you left."

Weston snorted. "The only thing my time spent with Miss Thorncroft has done is convince me that I don't want to spend any further time with her. The woman is…is…"

"Is…?"

How to summarize Evelyn in a word?

"Exhausting," he concluded after taking a moment to think about it. "Miss Thorncroft is exhausting."

Brynne smiled. "Americans do have their own unique source of energy, don't they? I find it refreshing, myself."

"I do not," he said sourly.

"That much is apparent." Her smile widened. "I am glad to hear that your little venture with Miss Thorncroft went well, and you've both made it to Hawkridge Manor no worse for wear. Although I would be remiss if I did not comment on your choice of apparel. That jacket does not suit you at all."

"Well? Well?" he repeated, incredulous. "It was a bloody disaster from start to finish!"

"Now that you mention it, you do seem a tad flustered."

The Earl of Hawkridge?

Flustered?

Preposterous.

"Don't be absurd," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm just…weary."

"Weary," Brynne said skeptically.

"Indeed. I did not sleep well."

"Where did you sleep, by the by? On the side of the road, or at an inn, or–"

"A tavern with rooms above."

"A tavern! How very…rustic. Did you and Miss Thorncroft happen to have separate rooms, or–"

"Separate," he said through gritted teeth. "Most definitely separate."

"That's good," she said with a sage nod. "Wouldn't want any pesky rumors swirling about. Not with you about to become engaged to another woman, that is. Think of the scandal."

"Ah, yes. I'm sure that is what you were doing when you invited the sister of our father's hidden by-blow to Hawkridge Manor to mingle with our closest friends and family for a month. Thinking of the scandal."

"We don't have any close friends or family, which is why I invited Miss Thorncroft." Rising from her stool, Brynne removed her apron and hung it neatly on a hook pinned to the side of her easel. "I will admit, I did not anticipate that you'd have such a strong reaction to her."

Weston's foot slid off the step. "I am not–I am not having a reaction."

"Stuttering as well," his sister said sadly. "It's an unfortunate thing to see."

"Enough," he snarled. "That is enough. Enough with the endless litany of questions, and the thinly veiled suggestions, and the talk of marriage proposals. Do you think I don't know what you're doing?"

"I'm not doing a thing," she protested, even as a damning smirk betrayed her. "But if I was doing something, it would only be because I have your best interests in mind." She sobered. "You cannot seriously ask Lady Martha to become your bride, West. She is wrong for you."

"And I suppose you believe Miss Thorncroft is right?" he asked with a harsh laugh.

"Given she's managed to chip through that infamous icy exterior of yours in less than two days, then yes, I do think she's right for you. At the very least, she's a sight better than Lady Martha. Butter would not melt in that woman's mouth. And I don't mean that as a compliment." Brynne took a breath. "Wouldn't you want to be with someone you could love instead? Someone who was capable of loving you in return?"

"We are not having this conversation again."

"But–"

"No." It was not a request, but a command. "That is the end of it, Brynne. I've done you the favor of allowing Miss Thorncroft to attend the house party, but I am not inclined to indulge any more of this absurd dialogue. For the duration of this event, I do not want to hear any further mention of engagements, or weddings, or"–he winced just to say it aloud–"love. Not even a hint of romance. Is that understood?"

"You're an arrogant prat, Weston Weston," said Brynne, not without affection.

"So I've been told," he said dryly.

"You could always be a bachelor for the rest of your days. Gamble away the family fortune and sink into a life of excess and debauchery."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't tempt me."

Weston spent the rest of his afternoon inspecting the new aqueduct system being installed on the eastern, crop-rich edge of the estate to ferry water to the western side where drier conditions had yielded poor returns for over a decade. When he finally returned to the manor, just shy of sunset, he was informed that he had a visitor waiting for him.

"Sterling." Expertly concealing his surprise at seeing Sterling Nottingham, the Duke of Hanover, standing in the middle of his private study, Weston sat in a large leather chair and gestured for his unexpected guest to do the same.

The two men had met at Eton. They hadn't been best mates, per se, but they'd gotten along well enough and had extended their acquaintanceship beyond their school years, occasionally meeting up at a gambling hell or attending a race together. It wasn't difficult to maintain a casual friendship with Sterling. As amiable and charming as Weston was cold and reserved, the duke was highly regarded by all who knew him.

"I did not think I'd be seeing you until the Season started," Weston continued. "I wasn't aware you'd accepted your invitation, or that you'd be here this early."

"Wasn't going to," Sterling replied, remaining on his feet as he perused Weston's large collection of liquor kept in a glass case trimmed in mahogany. "House parties aren't my usual source of entertainment. No offense."

"None taken," Weston said dryly. "I am not overly fond of them myself."

"Your sister has outdone herself with the decorations, as usual. I especially enjoyed the little soaps molded into hearts. Very sweet."

Heart soaps.

Brynne hadn't mentioned any heart soaps.

Given that he had deliberately stated he wanted to see nothing over the next few weeks that could possibly be perceived as romantic, Weston could only assume the soaps were an oversight. One that needed immediate correction.

For an instant, during his long, solitary ride back to the manor, he had let his mind wander…and it wasn't soon before his head was filled with images of Evie, dressed only in a sliver of red satin.

The things he'd done to her on that ride…it was wicked incarnate. And the last thing he needed was anything that might intentionally provoke his ardor…or hers. For while he may have initiated their encounters, Evie certainly hadn't shied away from them.

She was as passionate a female as any he'd ever kissed, and while she lacked the finesse of a mistress skilled in the art of seductive practices, she more than made up for her inexperience with raw, unbridled enthusiasm.

Kissing Evie…being kissed by Evie…was like touching the sun. It was bright and beautiful. But getting that close to something so hot was not without consequence and, if given the choice, Weston would always prefer the familiar, emotionless touch of cold against his flesh instead of heat.

Fire was unpredictable.

Uncontrollable.

Untenable.

And he didn't need damned soap hearts floating around to remind him how much he had loved the lick of the flame.

"Where are they?" he demanded.

"In the receiving baskets in our rooms. Along with a miniature flask of champagne–quite clever, that–and chocolate in the shape of–"

"Let me guess," Weston bit out. "Hearts."

Sterling nodded. "It appears to be the running theme. Am I to assume we are preemptively celebrating your engagement to Lady Martha Smethwick?"

Martha. The woman he should have been daydreaming about, if he was to dream of any.

Instead, she was the furthest thing from his mind.

"I wasn't aware I'd made my plans to propose public," he said.

"Come now. You should know better than most that there is no such thing as a secret in the ton. Which is why I'm here." Finally settling on a bottle, Sterling twisted off the cork on a circular bottle of scotch and carefully poured the amber liquid into two glasses. Carrying one over to Weston, who accepted it gladly, he kept the other for himself and took a sip. "Excellent vintage. Scottish?"

Weston nodded. "You've a good palate. That was a gift. One of the last batches of whisky ever made at Glenavon Distillery."

Sterling pursed his lips and whistled. "I've been after one of these for years. Can't find them anywhere. And that's saying something, given my connections. Who gave it to you?"

"Lord Lachlan Campbell."

"How do I find him?"

"Devil if I know," Weston shrugged. "Our fathers attended Eton together. Lachlan was as close a friend as any I had growing up, and then last year he disappeared. He was here, for the house party, and then he left early without a word. Haven't heard from him since."

"Tall fellow?" asked Sterling, holding a hand several inches above his not-so-inconsiderable height of six feet. "Auburn hair? Bellowing laugh?"

"That's him."

"Hmm. Shouldn't be too hard to track down an enormous red-haired Scot. Speaking of disappearances…" Topping off his glass, Sterling sat across from Weston and tilted his head to study his whisky. "You've heard the news by now, I assume."

"That you killed your mistress in cold blood, chopped up her body, and tossed it in the Thames to be devoured by sharks?" Weston lifted a brow. "I heard something to that effect, yes."

"Bloody sharks?" Sterling scowled. "Next it'll be Nile crocodiles."

"I thought it was a little farfetched myself."

"Then you don't think I did it."

Not bothering to deign such an absurd statement with a response, Weston just gave a snort and sipped his whisky. "That's why you're here, then. To avoid the gossip running rampant through London."

"Aye. The private detective I've hired believes it would be best if I laid low for a while. Let the attention shift elsewhere and all that before the House of Lords reconvenes."

That gave Weston pause. "You cannot seriously believe you'll be brought before us on real charges. You're the Duke of Hanover, for God's sake."

"And a murderer, if public opinion counts for anything."

"By the start of the Season, everyone will have found some new piece of salacious gossip to entertain themselves with, and doting mothers will once again be shoving their daughters in your path like sacrificial lambs."

Sterling looked up from his glass. "Speaking of lambs, do you know there's one in the parlor?"

"I'm well aware," Weston said through gritted teeth. "Her name is Posy, and she belongs to Miss Evelyn Thorncroft. I've high hopes that both the lamb, and Miss Thorncroft, will be departing shortly."

"Thorncroft…Thorncroft…why does that sound–I know." Sterling snapped his fingers. "I've met her sister. The red-haired one. Ah…Joanna. She's working for the private detective I've hired to clear my name. Thomas Kincaid. Nice fellow. You'd like him."

"You mean she was working," Weston corrected. "Joanna was working for Mr. Kincaid, and now she's on her way back to Boston." With Evie soon to follow in her footsteps, he added silently.

"Boston? No, not unless she's a doppelg?nger I don't know about," Sterling said cheerfully, oblivious to the sudden tension in Weston's jaw. "Just saw her yesterday afternoon. It seems she and Kincaid have taken up with each other. Never seen him happier." The duke drank his whisky. "Shouldn't you know all this? Joanna's your sister, not mine."

"Half-sister." Throwing back the remainder of his drink, Weston rose to pour himself another. "Joanna Thorncroft is my half-sister. And I want absolutely nothing to do with her. Or Evelyn."

Especially Evelyn.

"Inviting her to be your guest for a month is an odd way of showing your dislike."

As the tension in his jaw traveled down into his shoulders and arms, Weston gripped the crystal decanter with such force he wouldn't have been surprised if it had shattered in his hand. "Brynne invited her, not me. She has some nonsensical idea about wanting a close friend. For my part, I'd just as soon never see Miss Thorncroft again."

"Is that the sister you're not related to, or the one that you are? Sorry," Sterling chuckled when Weston uttered a curse. "With the way things have been going lately, if I didn't have fun at your expense, I'd have no fun at all. Relax, mate. I've never seen you this flummoxed over a skirt before."

"I am not flummoxed," Weston growled.

Sterling nodded sagely. "Exactly what someone who is flummoxed would say."

"You're a right bastard. You know that, don't you?"

"So I'm told." Sterling stretched his legs out in front of him. "Do you think you'll really do it, then? Propose to Lady Martha."

"Why wouldn't I?" Having topped off his glass, Weston pivoted to face the duke and notched a brow. "I have to marry someone. We all do, yourself included. It's the price we pay for the titles hanging round our necks, and Lady Martha will make as fine a countess as any."

"A tad boring, isn't she?"

Why did everyone keep saying that? True, there was nothing that made Lady Martha Smethwick particularly interesting. But that was what he liked most about her. Pretty and predictable was far better, in his opinion, than captivating and capricious.

A wife was meant to be a dependable means by which to keep his house in order. Not a distraction or, worse yet, a temptation.

Again, he thought of Evie.

Wrapped in silk.

Her tongue peeking out to wet her lips as she sank to her knees before him and–

"Lady Martha is a young woman of distinction," he growled, swiping Evie from his mind with all the testiness of a bear swatting at a bee that persisted in buzzing around its head. "She has impeccable manners, her family has never suffered so much as a hint of a scandal, and our political interests align. I cannot imagine a more suitable wife."

Sterling yawned. "As I said, boring."

"When are you going to take a bride?" he asked pointedly.

"Why the hell would I go and do that?"

"Because you're a duke, and you need a proper heir."

A shadow of grief rippled across Sterling's countenance as he raised his glass to his mouth, a stark contrast to the cheerfully roguish persona he generally exhibited. "Sebastian was the duke," he said, referring to his eldest brother who had been killed in a duel. A duel Sterling had jestingly urged him to participate in, never imagining in his worst nightmares that it would cost Sebastian his life. "I'm just the spare pretending to take his place."

Weston did not know what to say. What words would bring comfort to a man who felt responsible for the death of his brother? A man who was about to be put on the trial for the murder of his mistress.

"Here," he said gruffly, reaching for the decanter of scotch. He filled up Sterling's glass, then struck his against it. "To Sebastian, may he rest in peace."

"To Sebastian," said Sterling bleakly.

Together, they drank.