Chapter Nine

Evie felt like a new person.

After sending her wool dress monstrosity away to be burned, she'd soaked in an honest-to-goodness porcelain tub with a hand carved wooden rim polished in beeswax. As if that wasn't luxurious enough, the water had been hot–not tepid, not warm, but hot–and scented with rose oil. Bubbles had floated on the surface, so thick and plentiful that Evie hadn't even see her own limbs beneath the frothy concoction of glycerin soap and sugar.

It was the first real bath she'd had since leaving Somerville, and even then, the round metal tin she'd shared with her sisters and grandmother with water pumped directly from their well (which was so cold it took nearly an hour to boil, and then there were the long treks with heavy pails up and down the narrow stairs) hardly qualified.

After emerging from the tub, she had taken a nap, and slept through the afternoon into the evening. Dinner in her room, and then back to bed, whereupon she'd floated off into dream until morning…and nearly wept with joy when she found another bath already prepared and waiting for her.

This time, she stayed in the water until the bubbles had all but dissipated, and when she was ready to emerge, all she had to do was a ring a bell and her appointed lady's maid, a beaming brunette named Hannah, bustled in carrying a Turkish towel that was nearly as tall as Evie herself.

"Here you are, Miss," said Hannah, holding the towel wide and politely averting her gaze as Evie emerged from the tub. "How was your bath?"

"Wonderful," she said with feeling. "Just what I needed."

She wrapped herself in the thin, flat cotton, mindful not to slip on the ivory tile beneath her bare feet. Her bedchamber was so large it included two entirely different types of flooring! Wide oak boards beneath the brass bed and accompanying furniture, which included a wide velvet lounge she couldn't wait to take a nap on, and glossy marble squares that distinguished the bath from the rest of the room, along with privacy panels draped in pale yellow silk to match the wall hangings.

"Very good, Miss. I had your trunks brought up and unpacked your belongings while you slept, along with a few other things that Lady Brynne wanted you to have during your stay with us at Hawkridge Manor. I hope you don't mind–I was afraid I might wake you, but you're a very heavy sleeper."

"Don't mind?" Evie said with a delighted laugh as she crossed the room and flung open the doors of a towering armoire to reveal half a dozen dresses she'd never laid eyes on before. "Hannah, I could kiss you!"

The maid blushed. "I am pleased that you are pleased, Miss. Lady Brynne indicated that you are an extremely special guest, and that I am to take excellent care of you."

"I could kiss her as well," Evie said fervently, running her fingers down the sleeve of a lavender walking dress with double-breasted buttons and chenille fringe.

Even though I'd much rather kiss her brother.

The unbidden thought stilled her in her tracks. As her cheeks suffused with hot, splotchy color, she kept her head tucked behind the door of the armoire and took her time sorting through the colorful sea of gowns that Brynne had graciously allowed her to borrow.

There were narrow-sleeved jackets in crisp taffeta, peplum skirts with long trains, a stunning morning dress in floral printed silk, and an evening gown that stole her breath with its cascading layers of flounces and striped tulle bodice, all in a splendid canary yellow that was certain to draw attention for miles around.

Deciding to save the yellow gown for the receiving dinner, she settled on a white day dress with pagoda sleeves, red satin trim, and rosettes piped in black lace. Hannah helped her get ready, and even styled her hair in an elegant coiffure with curled tendrils that framed the sides of her face. A pair of modest pearl earrings that had once belonged to her mother, and Evie was prepared to greet the other guests and rub shoulders with British nobility.

Her heelless slippers made nary a sound as she descended the master staircase into the middle of an empty foyer, a grandly sized room that was notable if only because there was nothing about it of note.

Plain white was the dominating color, with nary a picture or a rug or even a tapestry to break up the monotony created by such a lack of pigmentation. Given the natural, almost fairytale-like beauty of the manor's exterior, Evie had been expecting the inside to be…well…more. Certainly she hadn't anticipated this blank slate of ivory. But maybe she should have, considering the estate's principle occupant.

If Weston had designed a house to reflect his personality, he'd succeeded and then some. The cold, emotionless man who'd all but shoved her out of the growler paired perfectly with this frigid, icy backdrop. Rather like French wine and Italian cheese, but without the delicious aftertaste.

"Miss Thorncroft!"

Evie automatically turned at the sound of her name, and smiled when she saw Lady Brynne Weston hurrying over. The two women exchanged pleasantries, and then recused themselves to an adjoining parlor with views of a pond that Evie hadn't noticed upon her arrival. A pair of swans floated across the calm surface, their arched necks forming half a heart as they paddled in leisurely circles.

"Are they tame?" Evie asked, nodding at the fowl.

"The swans? They were raised here on the estate, but I wouldn't call them tame." Brynne gave a rueful shake of her head. "Just make sure that if you ever go over to the pond that you've plenty of bread crumbs with you, or else you'll need shoes that are equipped for running. Tea?"

"Thank you." Accepting the delicate cup made of bone china and embossed in gold, Evie added a swirl of cream and then sat down across from Brynne. "I also wished to thank you for your generosity," she said, stroking her skirt with all the loving adoration of a parent embracing their newborn child. "I shall endeavor to do your clothes justice, and I absolutely must have the name of your modiste."

While Evie couldn't afford so much as a new handkerchief at the moment, she was already looking forward to when cost was no object and her husband's allowance permitted her to buy whatever she desired. She needn't wear the same gown until the stitching became threadbare ever again. Or get blisters on her feet from hand-me-down shoes that were a size too large because they'd been made for Joanna's enormous rabbit feet. Or feel that awful prickle of embarrassment at the nape of her neck when she walked past her peers in their fashionable dresses designed straight from the pages of Journal des Dames et des Modes.

"Think nothing of it." Brynne gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. "I am fortunate to have more clothes than I could wear in a lifetime, and you'll fill them out better than I ever could. Please consider everything a gift."

Evie's jaw dropped. "Oh, no. I couldn't possibly keep–"

"You can," Brynne said firmly. "And you will."

"All right." Why object further, when it was clear this was what Brynne wanted? She didn't want to be rude. "I should like to get you something in return, though."

"Tell me about you and your sisters." Brynne smiled encouragingly over the rim of her teacup. "That is the only present I require."

Evie often liked talking about herself. Honestly, what wasn't there to like? But she failed to see any facet of her life that might possibly be of interest when compared to the gorgeous gowns and glittering ballrooms and lavish house parties that made up Lady Brynne's world.

As the sister of an earl, the daughter of a marquess, and the granddaughter of a duke, she had doors available to her that Evie could never dream of. Doors that would have opened, at least partially, for Joanna as well…if she'd decided to stay instead of following in the footsteps of their mother and sailing back to Boston.

Evie did not understand her sister's decision any more than she did her mother's. Who would want to leave all this? It was like giving a bird wings and then telling it not to fly. Or entering a horse in a race and then not allowing it to run. As for herself, Evie couldn't imagine leaving England. And not only because her last sailing expedition had begun and ended with her head in a bucket.

From the second she stepped onto British soil, she'd felt a sense of belonging. Of recognition. Of coming home, even though she'd never traveled further than Boston.

But then, England was in her blood.

Her grandmother, Mabel Ellinwood, had been a lady. The second-born daughter of the Viscount of Clarencott, who had fallen in love with a visiting American scholar by the name of Joseph Pratt. They would go on to marry, and have a daughter of their own…Evie's mother, Anne.

By Evie's calculations, that made her a quarter-British. It wasn't as good as Miss-Joanna-my-secret-father-is-a-marquess, but surely it was better than nothing. And it also helped explain her innate love of the country's architecture, and its fashion…and its earls.

One earl in particular, but who was keeping track?

Certainly not Evie.

Not after the way Weston had treated her.

As if she were just any other guest. As if she were no one of importance. As if she were ordinary.

And for Evie, who prided herself on her exceptionalism (even under the most dire of circumstances), there was no greater insult to be had.

"What would you like to know?" she asked Brynne, mustering a smile that was tight at the edges, like a stocking too small for her calf.

"Oh, everything," Brynne gushed, her hazel eyes lighting. "What was it like growing up with two sisters? I've only a brother to compare, and, well, you've met Weston. He can be…difficult."

To put it mildly, Evie thought as she raised her tea to her lips.

"Although I'd be remiss if I did not say that there are times he is so sweet-natured and thoughtful you could just kiss him. Don't you agree, Miss Thorncroft?"

Evie almost spit her mouthful of tea back into her cup. "I…er…I don't believe I've gotten to know that side of him."

"Haven't you?" Brynne said innocently. "That's a shame."

She knows, Evie realized. Maybe not everything, but Weston's sister knew something. At the very least, she suspected.

Pesky things, suspicions.

They could either prove to be helpful…or hurt Evie's plan in any number of ways. One thing was for certain: until she knew where Brynne stood in regards to her brother marrying an American, it was best to steer their dialogue towards safer waters.

"Growing up with two sisters was very…loud," she said, deliberately inserting good cheer into her voice despite the constrictive band wrapped around her throat. "Joanna and I invariably find ourselves at odds, whereas Claire, the youngest, can do no wrong. But when Joanna isn't throwing a shoe at my head, we're really very close. Our disagreements stem from being too much alike, I fear. We're both obstinate and opinionated, whereas Claire is as gentle as a kitten."

And she missed them both terribly.

The sisters had never been apart before. Not like this. Which was why she'd been doing her best not to think about it. Something she had managed to do during the chaotic trip from London to Hawkridge Manor, but now that she was here and some semblance of normality had returned (at least, she liked to think that porcelain tubs and marble tile and floral printed silk was her new normal), the ache of their absence had started to settle in.

"How fascinating," Brynne breathed. "And you never knew? About Joanna's unique…history? I am sorry to ask such a personal question. But given the connection between our families, I see no reason to purposefully ignore the large elephant in the room. I've found they tend to start stampeding when you do that."

The edges of Evie's mouth twitched. "We wouldn't want stampeding elephants."

"No, not until all the tents have been taken down, anyway."

"Naturally."

They exchanged a grin, and Evie's discomfort began to melt away. Whereas she felt the need to be on her toes around Weston (both figuratively and literally, at least when they were kissing), she was very comfortable with Brynne. There was a certain ease between them. A developing camaraderie that usually only came after years of knowing someone. Their habits and their eccentricities. Their strengths and their flaws. Even then, you couldn't trust that person not to turn their back the instant you fell upon difficult times.

Just like all of Evie's "friends" had done to her.

Women she'd known since childhood had turned up their noses as soon as it became public knowledge that the once mighty Thorncroft family had fallen off their pedestal. Women she'd laughed with, and shopped with, and stayed up late into the night sipping watered champagne and giggling over Mrs. Waterman's feathered hat at Senator Bridgeton's annual ball.

Evie had never thought much of that laughter.

How cruel it was. How much pain it could cause.

Until it was directed at her.

Because her friends had never directly stated they wanted nothing to do with her. Oh, no. That would be much too straightforward. But they'd hosted parties and invited everyone but her. They'd gone shopping for new dresses and not bothered to include her. They'd deliberately crossed the street to avoid crossing her path.

And they'd giggled.

Mercilessly.

Joanna and Claire had never noticed. Or if they had, they didn't care. But she had noticed. And she had cared. And she had promised herself that there would come a time when no one laughed at Evelyn Thorncroft ever again.

"Are you all right?" Brynne asked, her gaze both sympathetic and searching. Reaching across the serving table, she gently clasped Evie's cold, still hand. "You look pale. If this subject is too difficult, we can talk of something else."

"No, I…" Swallowing with some difficulty, she took a drink of her tea in the hopes that the lemon infused water would help wash away unpleasant memories best left undisturbed. Which was why she'd taken such care to keep them locked in a box where they couldn't bother her. A box where she kept everything else she didn't want to face.

Such as the grief she still felt over her father's death. And the anger at her grandmother for not telling the truth sooner. And the trickling fear that no matter what she did, or who she married, or how much wealth she regained, it would never be enough to fill all this emptiness inside of her heart.

"I am fine," she said, summoning her biggest, brightest smile as she slammed the lid closed on the box and kicked it into the furthest corner of her mind. "A tad weary from my travels, perhaps. Nothing that cannot be fixed with an afternoon rest before dinner. But to answer your original question, no, my sisters and I never had any reason to believe that we might have different fathers. It wasn't even a consideration. Maybe if Claire and I looked the same, and Joanna was the proverbial sore thumb…but we all inherited our appearances from various family members. I've my father's dark hair, Claire is as fair as a sunbeam, and Joanna is the mirror image of our mother."

Brynne sat back in her seat. "How did you find out, then?"

"The ring." In this, Evie knew she had to proceed with caution. The ruby ring, now in Weston's possession, had come to mean so many different things to so many different people.

For Brynne and Weston, it was a priceless heirloom to be passed from one generation to the next through marriage, and their father never had any right to give it away to his American mistress as a parting gift.

But for Evie and her sisters, the ring was one of the last physical connections they had to a mother they could barely remember. It was also a means to financial freedom, should they choose to part with it. Two conflicting ideas that she hadn't yet reconciled…and if her plan went accordingly, she'd never have to. Because if she married the Earl of Hawkridge, the ring would pass to her, thus circumventing the need to sell it…or steal it, which was Joanna's solution.

All things considered, Evie liked her idea the best.

Being a countess was vastly preferable to being thrown in an English prison. Newgate, she believed it was called. And her complexion would never recover from being locked in a cell without any natural light.

"After my father died in the war between the states," she continued evenly, her composure returned now that the box containing all of her unwanted feelings had been successfully closed, "we found ourselves burdened by financial strain. The ring, which Claire found in the attic, was the only thing we had of any value. It wasn't until it was…taken that our grandmother revealed its significance, and told us that Joanna was really the daughter of a British lord."

"You mean when the ring was stolen," Brynne said wryly. "It's all right. You needn't dance around the truth for fear of offending me. Just like you and Joanna, my brother and I often find ourselves at odds. Were it my decision, I would have given the ring back to you and your sisters straightaway. Weston, unfortunately, is of a slightly different opinion. But then, he is a man, and men are beholden to what they believe is rightfully theirs, whether it be a crown, or a country…or a ring."

"Lord Hawkridge has been very reluctant to discuss any means by which the ring might be returned to us," Evie acknowledged.

"What a nice way to say that my brother is a bullheaded dunce."

She laughed. She couldn't help herself. "I wouldn't dare incur your annoyance by disagreeing."

Placing an arm around her ribcage, Brynne propped her elbow on her wrist and her chin in the palm of her hand. "I like you, Miss Thorncroft."

"I like you as well," said Evie and, to her surprise, she meant it. She did like Brynne. Immensely. What had begun as a means to get closer to Weston was rapidly developing into a friendship. The first that she'd entertained in years.

When a flicker of guilt nudged at the edge of her conscience, she pushed it aside.

It wasn't as if she were taking advantage of Brynne. All right, maybe she had at first. Just to get herself an invitation to the house party. But now that she was here, she could foster a genuine relationship with Weston's sister. One that would help fill the void left behind by Joanna and Claire. And if she wasn't being completely forthright in her intentions regarding Weston…well, surely that wasn't the same thing as lying.

Was it?

When a frown threatened, Evie deliberately relaxed the muscles around her mouth. She wasn't doing anything wrong. If anyone should feel guilty, it was Weston. He was the one who had put all this in motion when he'd taken the ring.

Stolen, she reminded herself, using Brynne's own term.

When he'd stolen the ring.

In doing so, he had cast a rock into a pond, creating an untold number of ripples. How far and where those ripples might travel remained to be seen, but Evie knew one thing with absolute certainty: no matter how rough the water became, she was not going to let her boat to sink.

"I'd like to thank you," she told Brynne impulsively.

"For what?" asked Weston's sister, smiling.

"For this," she said, gesturing around the room. "For welcoming me here. For being so accepting of the skeletons my family has unknowingly harbored in our closet." She paused. "Not to say your father is a skeleton."

"He has been called much worse, I can assure you."

"W-will the marquess attend the house party?" For the first time, Evie considered that she might actually meet Joanna's birth father before Joanna. It was an uneasy thought, made increasingly more so by the fact that she hadn't the faintest idea of what she would say.

"Hello, Lord Dorchester…how nice to make your acquaintance…no, I'm not the illegitimate daughter you conceived with my mother out of wedlock and kept a secret for two decades. I'm the other one–the one that intends to marry your son."

Oh, yes.

What a splendid introduction that would make.

"Who knows whether my father will grace us with his presence or not?" Brynne said lightly. "To the best of my knowledge, he is in Scotland. Or maybe it's Spain. My father is very fond of traveling. Attending house parties, not as much."

Evie's brow knitted. "Is he aware that…?"

"That his long-lost daughter and her sister came to London? I haven't any idea, to be honest. When he does find out, if he hasn't already, I'm certain he will be quick to make things right. Which is to say, he will settle an obnoxiously large sum of money on your sister and wish her good health and good fortune before he heads off to another part of the world."

"I don't know what Joanna will think about that," Evie said honestly. "She may not be a…willing recipient of his generosity. At least, not anything of a monetary nature. I could be wrong, but I believe she mostly wants to learn more about him. Specifically, the time he spent with our mother. What she was like. What they did. Where they went. That would truly be of value to her. To both of us, really."

Brynne's smile lost some of its warmth. "Alas, I regret to tell you that his attention is the one commodity my father is in short supply of. Wouldn't Joanna like to become an heiress? There are those who'd attempt to take advantage of her newfound wealth, of course. But from what you've shared, she strikes me as an intelligent, independent woman who is more than capable of fending off would-be fortune hunters. And from personal experience, I can tell you that being an heiress does come with its own unique set of benefits."

"You needn't convince me," Evie said with a laugh. "Were I in her position, I'd have no such qualms. But that is an area where my sister and I differ. Not to say that she absolutely would not accept such a boon were it freely given. But I'm familiar enough with how her mind works to know that she wouldn't want to feel as if…as if it were merely a transaction, or a debt to be paid."

Brynne nodded. "I understand."

They sipped their tea.

"Would you care for a walk around the grounds?" Brynne asked after an uncomfortable pause. "There's a garden I'd like to show you, along with the stables. We've just had a foal born. Late in the season, I'm afraid, but she's a strong little lady. You can help me come up with a name, if you'd like."

"I'd love to." Grateful for the opportunity to leave their heavy conversation behind, Evie rose from her chair and followed Brynne out of the parlor.

Weston's morning ride over hill and dale on a fresh, frisky mount had done him good. Not only had it helped to clear his head from the lingering effects of drinking too much with Sterling the night before, but it'd given him a way to expend his energy.

Outside of the bedroom.

Hopefully, the gallop, coupled with the cold bath he'd taken upon waking, would alleviate any lingering fantasies he'd been nursing of Evie since their last kiss…and ease the throbbing between his thighs that was a constant reminder of how badly he wanted to kiss her again.

Everywhere.

Anywhere.

All at once, and then so slowly that she screamed out his name.

He wanted to hear her say it.

Weston.

Weston.

Weston.

His name would spill from her lips as he suckled at her breasts, alternating between the soft ivory globes before he kissed his way down her ribcage to her navel, and then lower still until he used his tongue to part her sweet curls and–

Bloody hell, he cursed inwardly.

So much for that ride.

He dismounted outside the stables. Giving the gelding a hearty slap on its lathered neck–it wasn't Luther's fault that his owner was a walking cockstand–Weston discreetly adjusted his breeches and then strolled into the barn.

Like any nobleman worth his salt, he maintained a modest breeding operation that encompassed half a dozen broodmares, all retired racers, and Bold, a three-year-old colt out of Doncaster, winner of the Epsom Derby. He was pleased with both Bold's superior confirmation and sensible temperament, and planned to stud him out at the beginning of next year.

The faint, but pleasing scent of leather and straw welcomed Weston as he made his way from one stall to the next, greeting each horse standing inside the roomy wooden boxes with more affection than he generally gave most people. But then, horses weren't selfish. They kept no secrets. And short of death, which came for both man and beast eventually, they would never break your heart.

He'd just exited the last stall on the row when he heard it.

Or rather, when he heard her.

The sound of Evie's husky laugh was as unmistakable to him as rain on a window. Or the boom of thunder in the midst of a storm. Or the chirp of crickets heralding in that first warm spring evening after months of winter.

Her laughter was instantly identifiable because she was instantly identifiable.

Even without having her in his line of vision.

Then he stepped around the corner and there she was. Glowing like a beacon in a white dress that accentuated every curve and line of her delectable little body. Her hair was pinned back from her face, allowing him an unfettered view of her blue eyes framed with long, sweeping lashes, plump mouth highlighted with some sort of gloss that made the muscles in his abdomen stretch hard as a drum, and that narrow chin that tended to jut whenever she was angry with him.

But she wasn't angry now.

As she placed her arms over the top of the foaling stall and peered within, her entire countenance radiated pure joy. And Weston experienced an unexpected surge of jealousy because he wanted to be the one to bring her such happiness. He wanted her to gaze at him with the same delight in her eyes. He wanted to be the reason she smiled.

Which was so utterly absurd, he wondered if he wasn't suffering some sort of acute swelling in his brain. Especially since there was swelling in other, similarly sensitive areas.

"Miss Thorncroft. Brynne." His voice was louder and harsher than he'd intended, and both women jumped before they whirled around.

"Weston," his sister gasped. "What did I say about sneaking?"

"What are you doing here?" Ignoring Brynne, he asked the question directly of Evie, who frowned at his accusatory tone.

"Lady Brynne wanted to show me the new filly," she said, adjusting the crimson shawl draped over her shoulders. "I was not aware the stables were off limits."

"They're not," Brynne interceded, rolling her eyes at him. "My brother is being an arse. As usual."

"You know I don't like guests wandering unsupervised around the barn," he said. "Or have you forgotten the time Lady Gibberson tried to feed my prized colt champagne?"

"That happened once. And if I recall, he quite liked it."

"That is beside the point."

"Then what is the point?" said Brynne. "For ‘tis obvious that Miss Thorncroft is neither unsupervised nor wandering. We just wanted to see how the foal was faring."

"Yes, it seems Miss Thorncroft has a particular fondness for baby farm animals." He glared at Evie, who returned his stare calmly, prompting him to demand, "Where is Posy, anyway?"

"Who is Posy?" Brynne asked. "I don't recall that name on the guest list."

"She is a lamb that Lord Hawkridge and I rescued after we discovered that her mother had been killed by poachers." Evie smiled pleasantly at Weston. Were it not for the sharp glint in her gaze, he would have almost thought she meant it. "As to her whereabouts, I gave her to a footman to be bathed and fed."

"That's not what my footmen are for." Even without his sister telling him, Weston knew he was being an arse. Had Brynne brought anyone else into the stables, he wouldn't have given them more than passing greeting. But Evie wasn't anyone else. She wasn't like anyone he'd ever met.

A second in her presence and all of his self-control, all of his carefully constructed emotional barriers, were stripped away, leaving him helplessly undefended against her natural allure. If he didn't snap at her, he was going to kiss her. And since he very well couldn't do that, his only alternative was to disguise his lust with loathing.

"He did not look busy," she countered, lifting a dark brow.

"Two dozen members of the ton are about to descend on this estate at any moment," he growled. "Every single maid, servant, and livery boy is busy. And none of them have time to bathe a damned sheep!"

"Three dozen, actually," Brynne corrected. "But who is counting?"

"I am. I am counting." Incredulous, he raked a hand through his hair. "Thirty-six guests? Bloody hell. Why would you ever invite so many? Where are we going to put them all?"

"We've enough bedrooms to accommodate twice that amount. And if anyone is to blame, it's you."

"Me," he said flatly. "This ought to be good."

Brynne shrugged. "After Lady Smethwick made it known that she and her daughter would be attending, I was fending off callers day and night. Everyone wants to say they were present when the Earl of Hawkridge and Lady Martha became–"

"Did you pick a fabric for the chairs?" he interrupted.

"What?" she said, blinking in confusion.

"The chairs." He threw his hand in the air. "The dining room chairs that you wanted to reupholster in green but the fabric wasn't available. Did you ever select another color?"

Staring at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted a second head, she nodded slowly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I decided on the eggplant. I didn't realize you were actually listening to me."

Neither had Weston, but he'd needed something to stop Brynne from going on about his engagement plans, and dining room chairs in need of reupholstering was the first thing that came to mind.

He hadn't any idea why discussing Lady Martha Smethwick in front of Evie was so innately repulsive to him. He only knew that it felt…wrong, somehow. Like discussing his wife in front of his mistress. Not that Evie was–or ever would be–his mistress. For even if he was inclined to make her his (which he definitely wanted to, but also absolutely did not), she deserved more than some clandestine affair in a house tucked away on a side street that he visited in the dead of night.

Evie was far too proud for such an arrangement, and he'd never demean her by asking her to place herself in a situation where she was less than. Even if it meant having those luscious curves available to him whenever he desired. Kissing her for as long as he wanted. Loving her until the sun went down and then rose again, painting the sky in an endless streak of pink and gold as they finally collapsed beside each other in a slick, tangled heap of limbs.

Swallowing hard, he shifted his weight onto his heels and cast his attention into the foaling stall where the filly, still unnamed, slept soundly. "Brynne, I'd like a word with Miss Thorncroft. In private."

"Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of Lady Brynne."

He turned his head to stare at Evie, and were such things possible the heat blazing in his eyes would have ignited the pile of hay behind her. "No. I cannot."

"There's…there's a sitting arrangement I really must tend to," said Brynne, her gaze darting between them. "Have a lovely chat."

Off she dashed, leaving Weston and Evie alone save for the horses…and the tension simmering between them. Straw rustled as the broodmares moved around in their stalls. From somewhere out in the yard came the sound of a rake scraping across gravel. At the other end of the barn, Bold let out a shrill whinny.

Evie wet her lips. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" he said roughly.

"Like you want to ravish me."

"What if I did?"

"Want to ravish me?"

He gave a clipped nod.

"But at the tavern you said–"

"To hell with what I said." Three steps, and he was in front of her. Four, and she was in his arms. He grabbed her waist. Yanked her against him. Relished the quiver he felt go through her entire body. Craved the taste of her mouth like a man half-starved.

She tilted her head back. Her sooty lashes spilled across the tops of her cheeks, and then lifted to reveal blue eyes dark with smoke and sensuality. "Ravish away, my lord."