“She is?” Brynne gasped. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Crossing his arms, Weston watched in tightlipped silence as his sister leapt to her feet, nearly toppling her easel in the process. She whirled in a circle, then spun back, before glancing down at her own hand still clutching her paintbrush.
“There it is,” she said in relief before she swished the bristles clean in a cup of water and carefully returned the brush to its rightful box. Then she untied her painting frock, straightened her hat, and all but skipped up the stone steps to the terrace where Weston was standing. “I suppose we won’t have time to visit the furniture maker after all.”
Weston smiled pleasantly at his sister.
She smiled back at him.
His mouth flattened. “You’re going to march yourself out there and explain that you made a mistake. Tell her we don’t have the room to accommodate a last-minute guest.”
“But we do have the room. Hawkridge is enormous.”
“Then tell her we don’t have the means to get her there.”
“She is sitting in our carriage as we speak.”
He threw his arms up. “Then tell her the bloody sky is falling! I don’t care. Evelyn Thorncroft is not attending this house party. And that’s final.”
Now it was Brynne’s eyes that narrowed. Although renowned the ton over for her ladylike demeanor and quiet grace, his sister possessed the same spine of steel that he did, and when she put her foot down on something she rarely removed it. “Don’t you dare take that tone with me, Weston Weston.”
He grimaced. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”
Why his parents had seen fit to give him the same moniker twice, he hadn’t the faintest idea. It was an embarrassment he’d overcome by referring to himself as Hawkridge to his peers, and the more familiar Weston to his personal friends and family. Only Brynne dared bring up the unusual name, and every time that she did, he couldn’t help but wince.
“And I hate it when you treat me as if I were your subordinate!” she retorted. “Just because I happened to be born the female twin and you the male does not make me less than you.”
“According to British law it does,” he pointed out.
“You’re just trying to make me angry enough to forgo the party entirely, so that you can tell Evie she has been disinvited.”
“Yes,” he admitted unabashedly. “Is it working?”
“You’re a cad, Weston.”
He shrugged off the insult. “I’m much worse than that, sweetling.”
“Oh, I am aware. But as a lady, it’s the only word I can use.”
Shifting his weight, he skimmed his nails, filed to blunt edges, along his jaw. “Why is this of such importance to you, Brynne? You didn’t even know we had another sibling until a few weeks ago. We’ve gotten along fine until this point. Why complicate matters unnecessarily?”
“I’d hardly call being raised by an army of governesses and sent away to Cheltenham Ladies’ College for a year of my life as fine,” Brynne retorted, referring to England’s most acclaimed boarding school for young women of distinguished families.
Weston’s experience had been similar, except he’d attended Eton for four years instead of one. From fourteen to seventeen he’d only seen his father and sister over Christmas, and even then, the marquess had rarely made an appearance, abandoning his two children to celebrate the holiday in the company of servants.
He and Brynne couldn’t complain, and they never had. Not when they’d been blessed with a roof over their heads and food in their bellies and more money than either of them could spend in a lifetime. Money that Weston had increased tenfold with a variety of entrepreneurial investments that expanded far beyond the passive income brought in by tenant farmers.
But while he and Brynne had never wanted for anything of a materialistic nature, there were other ways to starve a child, and they’d both longed for love. For affection. For even the simplest gesture that would indicate their father considered them as more than just another obligation to be met.
As Weston grew older, his paternal expectations had grown lower until they’d all but disappeared. But Brynne, he suspected, had held out hope that their sire might suddenly turn into the father-figure they’d yearned for all those years spent alone in a vast, empty house.
His hope had been that things would change when he went off to boarding school. While Brynne had dragged her heels, afraid to leave him, Weston had secretly counted down the days until he could start a new life far from the loneliness of his old one.
Instead, he’d learned two valuable lessons he’d carried with him into adulthood.
That he could be surrounded by people and still feel terribly alone.
And the only person he could depend on was himself.
“Given our upbringing, I understand why you might have an…attachment towards the Thorncrofts,” he allowed begrudgingly. “But they are not our family, Brynne. They’re nothing like us.”
Her lips twisted in a humorless smile. “At this point, I surely think that is to their credit. Why would anyone in their right mind want to be like us, West? Yes, we’ve titles and wealth and prestige. But what have we really accomplished with our lives? I spend all my days painting because I haven’t a single friend I’d genuinely like to spend time with. Father would prefer to sit in a hunting lodge than have tea with his children. And you’re about to propose to a woman you don’t even like.”
“I like Lady Martha.”
“What is her favorite color?”
“Why is that of any importance?”
Brynne rolled her eyes. “That is exactly as I assumed. You’ve only selected her because she will make a suitable countess. And once she’s given you an heir, the two of you can ignore each other for the next thirty years.”
“And?” he said, not seeing the problem.
“Shouldn’t we want more for ourselves?”
His sister’s words struck a chord deep down inside of Weston. A chord he’d gone out of his way not to touch. Did he want more than a loveless marriage to a lady who invoked nothing more than vague stirring of apathy?
Of course.
He was a cad, not a fool.
And it was because he wasn’t a fool that he understood the merits of shackling himself to someone like Martha Smethwick. Someone who would never question him. Never challenge him. Never provoke him. She was going to be the perfect wife because she wouldn’t require more of him than he was willing to give.
Frustrated, he raked a hand through his hair. The thick dark strands fell in a disheveled wave across his temple. What the hell did Brynne expect of him? That he marry a woman like Evelyn Thorncroft?
Now there was a bloody brilliant idea, he thought sourly. Why spend the rest of his life in relative peace and quiet when he could spend it arguing with a stubborn black-haired beauty who derived pleasure from making his blood boil?
Good God, he’d rather die a monk than marry that shrew.
“We are far more fortunate than most, Brynne.” He gave his sister a stern look. “We’d do well to appreciate what we have.” And never bring up this conversation again, he added silently.
“I do appreciate what we have.” Her chin jutted. “You know that I do. But I also want–I need–a friend, West. Someone with whom to go shopping on Bond Street with, and gossip at a ball with, and share girlish secrets that I cannot divulge to my brother.”
“And Miss Thorncroft is that friend,” he said skeptically. “You’ve an entire city of eligible companions to choose from, and that is who you pick.”
Brynne’s paint-smeared hands went to her hips. “It isn’t the same as a man selecting his wife. I actually want to enjoy myself when I am in their company.”
As he gazed at his sister, Weston was reminded of his one vulnerability. Namely, the fact that he’d never been able to deny his twin anything.
When she was fourteen and distraught over the loss of their beloved family hound, he’d immediatel
y gone out to the nearest farm and bought her two basset puppies, Ellie and Emma, who were now fully grown and no doubt eagerly awaiting her arrival at Hawkridge Manor where they patrolled the grounds in between eating and naps.
When she broke her ankle at sixteen and was made to remain indoors for the entire summer, he’d stayed with her every day to keep her company.
And when she turned eighteen and desperately wished for a white horse with black spots for her birthday, he’d scoured the entire country before importing an appaloosa mare from a private breeding farm in New York.
“I don’t want to see Evelyn,” he said, setting his jaw, “for the duration of the house party.”
Brynne gasped in delight. “You won’t! Except for when we all dine together, but I’ll make sure that you’re at opposite ends of the table. Oh, thank you, West!” Flinging her arms around his neck, she hugged him tight. “You’re the best brother I have.”
Weston gave his sister an awkward pat on the top of her head before he stepped back. Having been denied physical contact as a child (his governesses had been under strict orders to never embrace him, or even so much as wrap their arm around his shoulders, even if he were crying–especially if he were crying), he did not like to be touched as an adult.
Accepting comfort was a sign of weakness.
And the Earl of Hawkridge did not permit himself to be weak.
“I am the only brother you have.”
“That’s right. Which is why I hope you’ll grant me one more very small favor,” she said, squeezing her pointer finger and thumb together. “Miniscule, really.”
Weston wasn’t fooled for an instant. “What is it, Brynne?”
“You’ll need to travel with Evie to Hawkridge.”
“The devil I do,” he snorted. “It’s out of the question.”
“But you know that with my travel sickness I’m far better suited to make the trip in the brougham. And with all of my art supplies, another person simply wouldn’t fit. At this stage, it would take another hour, at the very least, to prepare the second town coach. Then you wouldn’t arrive at the estate until well after sunset. It only makes sense that you and Miss Thorncroft share the conveyance that is ready to depart immediately.”
“No,” he said flatly.
“West…”
“No. Absolutely, unequivocally, no.”
Chapter Two
“Mint?” Evie asked, prying the top off a circular metal tin and holding it out to the Earl of Hawkridge. “I find on long journeys there’s nothing worse than stale breath.”
“Oh,” Weston replied icily from the far corner of the carriage where he sat wrapped in shadows and silent disdain, “I can think of at least one thing worse.”
“Suit yourself.” Slipping a hard peppermint between her lips, Evie used her tongue to press it to the roof of her mouth as her gaze went to the window. They’d exchanged the busy streets of London for the rolling countryside of southern England. Here the houses were few and far between, with more sheep dotting the sprawling green fields than people.
The passing scenery reminded her of home. But unlike Joanna, who was boarding a ship at this very moment to return to the sleepy village of Somerville, and their sister, Claire, who’d been unable to leave it, Evie knew that she was exactly where she wanted to be. In a fancy carriage, sitting across from a handsome earl, on her way to an exclusive house party.
Of the three sisters, Joanna was the boldest. Claire, with her quiet scientific mind, was undoubtedly the brightest. But Evie, more than anything else, had always desired to be the best. And for her, that meant having the unparalleled admiration of her peers.
She’d started her quest for prestige at a young age when she’d made herself into the most popular girl at Chesterbrook Academy for Young Ladies. Some thought that popularity was accidental, a whim of fate, such as it were, but Evie knew that it was much more than that. It was hard work, and cunning, and knowing just the right thing to say to just the right person.
There were those (including Joanna) who considered her aspirations to be superficial. Silly, even. But having her peers gaze at her with envy as she sauntered down the street wasn’t silly to Evie. Having the best, most beautiful gowns wasn’t silly. Living in the biggest house in the entire village wasn’t silly. Marrying Evan Bridgeton, the eldest son of a senator, wasn’t silly.
It was smart, and practical. It was using the natural traits afforded her as a woman to thrive in a world controlled by men. And if occasionally she became a bit too consumed with how she looked or how others perceived her, well, that was all part of it.
For all intents and purposes, Evie was on the verge of living a perfect life. She was going to marry the best bachelor in all of Somerville (even if he didn’t know it yet). They were going to have the best children. Host the best parties. Travel to the best places. It was all but etched in stone, really.
Until the War of the Great Rebellion happened and Evie lost…everything.
Including her father.
A skilled physician, Jacob Thorncroft had felt it was his civic duty to help the Union in whatever capacity they needed him. Leaving his three daughters in the care of his mother, he had marched off to war…and ten months later his remains were returned to them in a pine box.
To this day, Evie had never known pain like that. The bewildering, baffling hurt of realizing the last time she had held her father’s hand, kissed his cheek, and told him that she loved him had been just that…the last time.
In her head, she’d understood the risk of war. What it could give, and what it might take. But in her heart…in her heart, she’d never really believed that it was her father who might be killed. Her father who might never come home. Her father who she would never see again.
It still ached, to think of him. Like a bone that had broken and never set right. Enough time had passed that the ache was no longer sharp enough to steal her breath, but all it took was a color, or a smell, or the sound of a deep laugh and she was found herself recalling all of the memories they had made together.
And mourning all the memories they never would.
Without their father’s financial support, it wasn’t long before the sisters were forced to sell their grand house in the middle of town. With tears in her eyes, Evie had watched from the window of her empty bedroom as all of their worldly possessions were loaded into carts and carried away to be sold at auction.
The servants were let go next, and then the carriages were sold, followed quickly by the horses. In the blink of an eye, the Thorncrofts went from being one of the wealthiest and most highly regarded families in Somerville to living in a drafty cottage outside the village with hardly enough room to accommodate the mice living in the attic, let alone three young women and their grandmother.
It was a tremendous fall.
A fall that Evie took personally.
And she’d promised herself, she’d vowed, that the day would come when she returned to the top of that ladder. She would claw her way there if necessary, but she’d be damned if she stayed on a rung where people looked at her with pity in their eyes.
“Would you stop that?” Weston said irritably, drawing Evie out of the past and back into the present.
Blinking, she glanced away from the window to where her carriage companion was slouched in the opposite diagonal corner, his long legs sprawled out in front of him and his arms crossed.
He’d closed the curtain to his window before he even sat down, leading her to assume that he intended to sleep for the duration of their journey. After attempting to engage him in a mild conversation about the weather which he replied to in a series of grunts and glares, she’d decided to let Weston sulk while she enjoyed the luxury of traveling across England in the most magnificent coach she’d ever seen, let alone had the pleasure of riding in.
Marked with the Earl of Hawkridge’s insignia in gold on the outside, it was upholstered with rich emerald green velvet within. Wood trim gleamed in the subdued light, and si
lk tassels hung from the canopied ceiling. The seats were large and roomy, and the carriage’s suspension was well sprung for she’d felt nary a jolt on their trip thus far. If not for Weston’s unpleasant demeanor, the trip would have been downright heavenly.
“Stop what?” she asked, bemused by the request.
Scowling, he leaned forward ever-so-slightly. “Making that noise.”
“What noise?”
His scowl deepening, he gestured at her mouth. “That noise. That–that sucking noise.”
“Sucking noise? I don’t…I…oh, you mean this.” She stuck out of her tongue, revealing what remained of the peppermint, before tucking it into the side of her cheek. “I wasn’t aware I was being unduly loud. I did offer you one, you know.”
“I don’t want a mint,” he said in a strangled voice. “I want you to not do that again.”
“Not do what again?”
“That thing you just did with your tongue.”
“I was showing you the peppermint.”
His ebony brows pulled inward to form a line of disapproval. “As an uncivilized American, you most likely aren’t aware of this, but British ladies do not go around sticking their tongues out of their mouths. If you are to be a guest at my estate, I expect a modicum of common decency and good manners.”
“If you don’t like it, then look the other direction,” she suggested before she resumed staring out the window…and slid the peppermint to the roof of her mouth with a loud pop of suction.
“That does it,” Weston snarled. “Give it to me.”
She flicked a disdainful glance at the arm he was holding out to her, his palm raised flat. He’d worn gloves when he’d entered the coach but had removed them sometime after they’d set off, exposing his hand to her gaze.
In her (admittedly limited) experience, Evie found that men of leisure often had the soft, lily-white hands of a lady. Unsurprising, given the most vigorous physical activity required of them on any given day was pouring themselves a glass of scotch. And even then, they had a footman at their beck and call if the task proved to be too arduous an undertaking.
Entranced by the Earl Page 2