Entranced by the Earl
Perks of Being an Heiress, Book 2
By Jillian Eaton
© Copyright 2021 by Jillian Eaton
Text by Jillian Eaton
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
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Produced in the United States of America
First Edition March 2021
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Jillian Eaton
The Perks of Being an Heiress Series
Bewitched by the Bluestocking
Entranced by the Earl
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Jillian Eaton
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter One
London Residence of the Earl of Hawkridge
September 1870
“What the devil are you doing in here?”
Evelyn Thorncroft, better known as Evie to her family and friends, did not flinch at the Earl of Hawkridge’s harsh tone. Instead, she tilted her head, arched a dark brow, and said, “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Me?” he said incredulously, slapping a hand on top of the carriage roof with such force that it startled the matching team of grays. With a snort, they began to prance nervously in place as the driver attempted to settle them. “This is my carriage.”
“You are welcome to use it, if you’d like.” Graciously sweeping her mauve skirts to the side, Evie patted the velvet upholstered seat beside her. “There is more than enough room for two.”
Last night, when they’d met at the Countess of Beresford’s ball, the earl’s eyes had been a cool, soft gray. A gray that had turned black as a storm cloud when Evie had revealed her name to him.
This morning, his gaze was hard as steel, and his freshly shaven jaw all but radiated with tension. He was absolutely furious to see her. But then, she’d suspected he would be. She’d even prepared herself for it, which was why she hadn’t jumped when he had wrenched the door open and glared at her with all the ferocity of a snarling bear.
All things considered, his anger was a compliment. After their waltz had abruptly ended with the earl stalking away, Evie had taken it upon herself to ask a few discreet questions about Weston, the Earl of Hawkridge.
She’d learned that he was outrageously wealthy. She’d learned that he was an adept equestrian. And she’d also learned that he was as notorious for his self-control as he was for his lack of emotion.
Cold as a glacier, one woman had said.
But handsome as sin, another had sighed.
Evie agreed with both opinions, although there was nothing the least bit cold about the fire burning in the earl’s eyes as he stared at her. She liked that her unexpected appearance had sparked such a volatile reaction. It revealed a crack, however slight, in all that armor.
And she was the one yielding the chisel.
“Get out,” Weston growled, jabbing a finger at the ground. “Now.”
“Are you inviting me inside for tea?” she asked brightly. “How splendid.”
A vein bulged in the middle of his temple. “I am not inviting you anywhere, Miss Thorncroft, except out of my sight. I do not know how you came to be in this carriage, and I do not care. But you will depart it immediately.”
“Do people do what you tell them?” she asked curiously.
“Unequivocally.”
Her lips curved. “Well, I pride myself on being the exception. If you’re not going to share the carriage with me, Lord Hawkridge, would you mind closing the door? There is a slight chill in the air, and I wouldn’t want to catch a sniffle.”
“Did your sister put you up to this?” he demanded.
Evie clucked her tongue. “Joanna is as much my sister as she is yours.”
Courtesy of the private detective that Joanna and Evie had hired to help them track down their mother’s stolen ring (their reason for coming to London in the first place), they’d discovered that Weston was Joanna’s half-brother. And that he was the one who had taken the ring. Or had it taken. The exact details were still a tad murky and it was all a tad confusing.
In short, Joanna was the result of a scandalous secret affair between Anne Thorncroft, Evie’s mother, and the Marquess of Dorchester, Weston’s father. The affair had been so secret that even Joanna hadn’t known who her real father was until the sisters followed the trail of the stolen ring all the way to London and everything had started to come to light.
Including the fact that Weston was their thief.
And he had no intention of returning what he’d taken.
“You and your sister can sod off all the way back to Boston because you’re not getting your greedy hands on my family’s ring ever again,” she believed had been his exact words when she’d asked if she could have the ring.
If his current thunderous expression was any indication, it didn’t seem as though a good night’s sleep had changed his mind any.
Pity, r
eally.
For him, that was.
If Weston had been more agreeable, they could have handled things the easy way. The polite way. If there was anything Evie had learned during her time in England, it was that the British were exceedingly polite.
But she was an American.
An American who wasn’t going to be leaving England without that ring on her finger…one way or another.
“My father’s illegitimate offspring means nothing to me,” Weston said coolly. “And you mean less than that, Miss Thorncroft.”
Evie winced. “This is going to be very awkward then, I’m afraid.”
The corners of his mouth tightened. “What is?”
“Why, it’s just that we’re going to be sharing a roof for the next four weeks. I’d hoped we might be able to start off on better footing, but…” she trailed off with a delicate shrug. “I suppose that we will have plenty of time to strike up an amicable relationship over the coming days.”
“What are you talking about?” he scowled.
“She hasn’t told you?” Evie said in feigned dismay. “Oh, dear.”
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Who?”
“Lady Brynne. She’s invited me to Hawkridge Manor. For the house party,” she clarified when Weston remained silent.
At the news, a muscle leapt high in his cheek. His hands curled into fists. For an instant, Evie thought he was actually going to lose his temper. But it seemed his callous reputation was well-earned, because Weston didn’t yell. He didn’t even speak at all. Raking her with a final scornful glance, the type of look generally reserved for a piece of trash after it was scraped off the bottom of a shoe, the earl turned on his heel and strode away.
Goodness, Evie thought, her blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. This is going to be fun.
“BRYNNE!” Weston’s bellow echoed through the large foyer, reaching all the way through his seven-bedroom brick manor to the rear gardens and sending the servants scurrying out of his way as he marched down the main hallway in search of his quarry.
Normally, he detested raising his voice, having been taught that if a man could not get what he wanted with a civil tone, then he didn’t deserve to have it. But if there was ever a time to shout, surely it was upon learning that his twin sister had invited his sworn enemy to spend a bloody month with them in the countryside.
He hadn’t been able to abide the sight of Evelyn Thorncroft for thirty seconds after he’d learned who she really was! What made Brynne think he could possibly be in the same company as that money-grubbing hoyden for thirty days?
After looking in the music room, the library, and the parlor to no avail, he stepped out onto the rear terrace and stopped short when he saw his sister painting in the shade of an oak tree, her fair brow furrowed in concentration as her brush swept across the canvas in swift, agitated strokes.
“Do you mind?” she said without bothering to lift her head. “You’re blocking my natural light.”
It was fitting, he supposed, that the last time they’d discussed Joanna and Evelyn Thorncroft they were in this very spot. Brynne had been painting then, as well. But then she was always painting, her quiet nature much more suited to the arts than socializing over a game of whist.
If he recalled correctly, she’d asked him what he planned to do if Joanna requested the ring back. The ring that family tradition dictated belonged to his future bride, not in the hands of one of his father’s by-blows. And he’d replied that he would give it to their dear half-sister…over his cold, dead body.
Weston stood by that proclamation. He’d rather see the damned ring destroyed than return it to the daughter of his father’s mistress. A mistress that Jason Weston had taken before his wife, the Marchioness of Dorchester, was barely in her grave.
She’d died giving birth to Weston and Brynne.
A tragic demise made worse by her husband’s betrayal, or so that was how Weston viewed it. Which was why he wanted nothing to do with Joanna or Evelyn.
Especially Evelyn.
Evelyn Thorncroft, with her guileless blue eyes and perfect porcelain skin and pink, voluptuous mouth, was the last person on earth he would ever want at Hawkridge Manor. Let alone for the annual Weston house party!
The exclusive event, held every year right before the beginning of the London Season, was another tradition. Started by Weston’s grandfather, the Duke of Caldwell, as a means to celebrate his recent engagement, it had been carried on by Weston’s father before it finally passed to Weston himself.
It was an obligation he took seriously, both as an earl and an heir. His grandfather, while alive at the advanced age of seven and eighty, was in no condition to play host to two dozen guests, and his father, quite frankly, couldn’t be bothered.
As soon as Weston came of age, the marquess had tossed the party into his son’s lap with all the carelessness of a horse swatting at a fly before he took off on a six-month holiday to his hunting lodge in Scotland.
He was there now, or so Weston assumed, having not seen hide nor hair of him since the Thorncrofts came to town. Good riddance, as far as he was concerned. Weston and his father had never been particularly close, and after Weston found a letter that had led to his discovery of the secret affair between the Marquess of Dorchester and Anne Thorncroft, an affair that had resulted in a child his father had never bothered to mention, the distance between them had grown to an immeasurable length.
When confronted by his son, Jason claimed that Anne Thorncroft was the “love of his life”. As if Weston men were actually capable of falling in love.
For five generations, they’d married for duty and little else, resulting in marriages that were as passionless as they were practical. Weston had been set on continuing in the path forged by his predecessors with Lady Martha Smethwick, a bland woman with impeccable manners whose family was known for producing sons.
But when he’d gone to his father to ask for the family ring, a priceless heart-shaped ruby framed on either side with diamonds, he had been shocked (and subsequently enraged) to learn that Jason had given the ring away.
To his American mistress!
“If you want it, then go find it,” his father had said, and so that was exactly what Weston had done.
It had cost him a small fortune, but he’d gotten what he wanted in the end.
He always did.
And what he wanted right now was an explanation for why Evelyn Thorncroft, of all people, was sitting in his carriage outside of his house.
“Do you have something you’d like to tell me?” he asked his sister after stepping out of her beloved “natural light”.
“You know, there was something…” Tapping the edge of her brush against her chin, Brynne’s nose wrinkled thoughtfully. “That’s it. Now I remember. The green fabric I wanted to reupholster the dining room chairs in doesn’t complement the wall in the way that I’d hoped, and I will need to choose another. Do you prefer eggplant, or more of a plum shade? I like the eggplant, personally, but I’m afraid it may be a tad too–”
“I don’t care about chairs,” he interrupted between clenched teeth. “Why the hell is Evelyn Thorncroft under the impression that she’s been invited to Hawkridge Manor?”
“Oh!” Brynne smiled brightly. “That’s because she has. Once the chairs are reupholstered, I really think we should commission a new sideboard. There’s a lovely furniture maker in Berkley Square that everyone has been raving about, and–”
“No,” he snapped.
His sister’s smile faded. “No, you don’t want a new sideboard, or no, you don’t like the furniture maker? Maybe if you saw a few of his pieces you’d change your mind. We could go this morning, if you’d like, before we depart for the country.”
Tilting his head up to the clear blue autumn sky, Weston prayed for patience. While sisters had their merits, and Brynne was better than most, it went without saying that siblings were a burden. Was it any wonder that he didn’t want another?
“I di
d it,” said Brynne after a long, heavy pause. “I invited her.”
“I figured as much.” Dropping his chin, he met his twin’s hazel eyes. “The question is what you hoped to accomplish with such a ridiculous stunt.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” Brynne said defensively. “Evie is our family, and–”
“She is not our family.” For some reason, Weston felt a primal urge to make that distinction. Maybe it was because–for a very, very brief moment–he’d fancied himself attracted to the raven-haired beauty who had stunned him with her beauty and charmed him with her wit. He hadn’t known who she was, of course. If he had, he never would have asked her to dance. Never would have leaned in to detect the scent of her perfume, an exotic blend of jasmine and citrus. Never would have admired the play of the candlelight across the top of her breasts. Never would have gazed at her plump pout and imagined what it tasted like. What she tasted like.
But that was all before.
Before he knew her name and what she was after.
Now he wanted nothing to do with her. This woman who was his half-sister’s sister.
Unfortunately, it appeared Brynne had other ideas.
“Evie may not be our family by blood, but she is connected to us,” his twin countered. “I should like to get to know her. We met last evening at the ball, and I found her to be exceedingly fresh and facetious.”
Weston glowered. “I think we have a different definition of the word facetious.”
“To be completely forthright,” Brynne went on, ignoring him, “I extended the same invitation to Joanna, but it seems she will soon be returning to Boston.”
“Good riddance,” he said bitterly. Then his eyes narrowed. “Why isn’t Evelyn accompanying her?”
“Because she is attending our house party,” Brynne explained with the patient tone of a parent speaking to a child who was having great difficulty grasping a simple arithmetic. “I’ve already sent our driver to collect her.”
“Oh, I’m aware. She’s here.”
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