Entranced by the Earl

by Eaton, Jillian

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

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

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

  “No,” he said gruffly.

  “You’re staring.”

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

  And now he had his solution.

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

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

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

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

  Good riddance, as far as he was concerned.

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

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

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

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

  Evie frowned. “What did I do?”

  Everything, he thought crossly.

  And nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He’d do it now, of course.

  There wasn’t a single reason not to.

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

  Yes, that was it, Weston told himself.

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

  Especially this near to her birthday.

  In seven months.

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

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

  “What else would it be?” he said impatiently.

  “It’s eleven in the morning!”

  “And?”

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

  “All right.” He snatched the flask away from her. “That’s enough.”

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

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

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

  Not that he was looking at her hips.

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

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

  Who knew ears could be so damned attractive?

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

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

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

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

  Toss money at the problem and hope it disappeared.

  Chapter Four

  Evie’s head felt pleasantly fuzzy, like it had when she and her sisters were children and they’d linked arms and spun in a circle until one (or all) fell down.

  When they hadn’t a care in the world.

  When everything was new and innocent.

  When they weren’t struggling to keep pace with curmudgeonl
y earls.

  “Would you wait up? You’re going much too fast,” she complained to Weston’s broad shoulders as he marched along ahead her with all the steely determination of a solider heading off to battle.

  Without giving any verbal indication that he’d heard her, Weston nevertheless shortened his stride, allowing her to catch up so they could walk abreast of each other instead of her trailing behind like a scolded child.

  She slanted him a glance out of the corner of her eye, and couldn’t help but giggle at what she saw.

  “If you find something remotely frivolous about this situation, Miss Thorncroft,” he said darkly, “by all means, please enlighten me.”

  “It’s–it’s your face,” she gasped before she doubled over with a peal of laughter, wrapping her arms around her belly as her entire body shook with mirth.

  Weston stopped short. “Pray tell, what about my face is so humorous?”

  Between chortles, Evie managed to say, “It is very very serious.”

  A long pause, and then…

  “Miss Thorncroft, you’re foxed.”

  “Where’s the fox?” Popping upright, she slanted a hand across her brow and peered off across the field. “I’ve only seen sheep.”

  “My point exactly.” Weston removed his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and regarded her with a lifted brow. “What am I supposed to do with you, Miss Thorncroft?”

  “I’m rather thirsty,” she said with a hopeful glance at the pocket that held his flask.

  Although his mouth remained stern, his gaze held a faint, unmistakable glint of amusement. “I should think not, Miss Thorncroft. I believe you’d had more than enough cognac.”

  “I thought you said it was brandy.”

  “Cognac is a type of brandy. Like a thoroughbred is a type of horse,” he explained when her temple creased in confusion.

  “Oh. I understand.” She didn’t really, as she knew as much about horses as she did different types of liquor, but nodding along seemed as if it were the most prudent thing to do. “I did not mean to insult your appearance, you know. No offense was intended.”

  “No offense was taken.”

  “Good. Because you’re really very handsome.”

  “Thank you, Miss Thorn–”

  “Almost as handsome as Evan Bridgeton,” she went on.

  Weston’s eyes narrowed. “Who the devil is Evan Bridgeton?”

  “The man I was going to marry. Oh, look! That sheep has a lamb.”

  “You were engaged?”

  “No, I…why Lord Hawkridge,” she cooed, lashes fluttering. “Are you envious of Mr. Bridgeton?”

  Evie’s head may have been fuzzy, but she wasn’t so inebriated that she didn’t recognize a flash of jealousy when she saw it. And Weston, with his taut jaw and drawn fists, was most definitely jealous.

  How…interesting.

  “You needn’t be, you know. Envious, that is,” she said when his only reply was a low, rumbling growl. “It’s true, Mr. Bridgeton was renowned throughout our village for his striking blond hair, piercing green eyes, and chiseled countenance, but it is not as if he was a Greek god or anything. However, come to think of it, I did hear him compared to Adonis on occasion. And yes, he was the son of a senator, which, in America, might as well have made him a marquess.” She tapped her chin. “A marquess is higher in ranking than an earl, is it not?”

  Weston’s growl intensified.

  “Do you have something in your throat?” she asked innocently. “Perhaps a nip of brandy might help.”

  “Miss Thorncroft,” he bit out through gritted teeth, “has anyone ever told you how incredibly vexing you are?”

  “Not Mr. Bridgeton. He thought I was…what were the words he used…” She pursed her lips. “That’s right! Now I remember. ‘Delightfully charming, astonishingly beautiful, and virtuous beyond reproach.’”

  “A regular Alfred Tennyson, your Mr. Bridgeton,” Weston sneered. “If he was so bloody perfect, why didn’t you marry him?”

  “Because I–oh, Lord Hawkridge, look!” On a gasp, Evie drew attention to a small, bleating lamb that had just come into view over the top of the hillside. “It’s in trouble. We have to help it.”

  “It’s a sheep in a field filled with sheep,” he said pointedly. “I am fairly confident it does not require the assistance of two people, one of whom is–Miss Thorncroft, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  Much later, Evie would look back on her actions and feel nothing short of humiliating, cheek-burning embarrassment. But in that moment, with her mind still pleasantly numb and her emotions running high, all she saw was a lamb calling out for its mother. As she knew the sting of losing a parent all too well, how could she not help?

  Never mind that she didn’t even like animals.

  Especially of the smelly farm variety.

  But while piles of dung would have been of utmost concern to sober Evie, intoxicated Evie barely noticed as she bunched up her skirts, climbed through the fence, and dashed off up the hill.

  With alarmed bleats, woolly white sheep scattered in every direction. But the lost lamb didn’t move. And it wasn’t until she’d reached the frantically bleating baby and caught a glimpse of what was laying at the bottom on the other side of the hill that she understood why.

  “Close your eyes,” Weston ordered, materializing as if out of nowhere to grasp her waist and spin her away from the gruesome sight. He wrapped his arms around her trembling frame, holding her in a protective embrace against his chest as her stomach rolled in protest at what she’d seen.

  “That poor thing,” she cried. “It was…it was…”

  “Dead,” he said flatly. “Killed early this morning, if I had to guess.”

  “What could do such a thing? Wolves?”

  “There haven’t been wolves in England for hundreds of years. The sheep was butchered by poachers, most likely, as there’s no natural predator large enough to take down a full grown ewe. At least nothing that would leave behind its lamb.”

  “The lamb!” Slipping out of Weston’s hold, Evie crouched beside the distraught baby and gently ran her hand across its back. It couldn’t have been older than a few days, a week at the most. She’d never seen one this size before. It had large, liquid brown eyes, velvety ears that stuck straight out the side, and long, spindly legs that were knobby at the knees. The lamb was as adorable as it was pitiful, and Evie could not conceive abandoning it where it was to either slowly starve to death or be picked off by some sort of creature. She gazed beseechingly up at Weston. “We have to bring it with us.”

  “Bring it…no,” said the earl with a curt shake of his head. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “It’s all alone. It needs us.”

  “There’s easily five dozen sheep standing right over there. They can take care of it.”

  “Well they’re not doing a very good job, are they?” Resolute in her decision, Evie carefully placed one hand on the lamb’s chest, another under its belly, and scooped it up. It weighed less than a bag of feathers, and was in such shock that it didn’t even raise a fuss, but instead pushed its head in the crook of Evie’s elbow. Within moments, its rapid breathing had steadied, and the lamb fell fast asleep.

  “This is stealing, you know,” Weston commented as they made way out of the field and onto the road. But he reached for the lamb to lift it over the fence without Evie having to ask, and as she climbed between the wooden boards, she would have sworn his mouth curved into a shape that suspiciously resembled a smile.

  Giving her skirts a good thwack with the palm of her hand to clear them of dust, she straightened her hat as best she could and tucked a limp strand of hair behind her ear. She must have looked like a positive fright but, for once, Evie didn’t care about that. Her first concern was the slight, vulnerable animal being so tenderly held in the arms of the gruff, surly Earl of Hawkridge. Except no one, not even Weston, could look gruff or surly when they were cradling a lamb.
r />   “We’ll find the farmer and pay him fairly for it,” she said dismissively. “No harm done.”

  “We’re not buying anything,” Weston said. “We’re returning it at the first opportunity. I already have one uninvited houseguest to deal with. I’m not adding another.”

  “Shhh,” Evie said, frowning. “She’ll hear you.”

  “She?”

  “Yes. Doesn’t she strike you as a girl?” It was likely the lingering effects of the brandy, but Evie felt a distinctive maternal tug as she reached out and stroked the top of the slumbering lamb’s head. Strange, as she’d never been particularly aware of any mothering instinct before.

  As a child, she hadn’t played with dolls as much as she’d used their hair to practice braiding. When she grew older and her friends began to discuss how many children they were going to have, she’d been more concerned with keeping pace with the latest fashion trends coming in from Paris via the Boston Women’s Quarterly which was at least four weeks behind than using the petals of a daisy to dictate whether she was going to have two boys or three girls.

  All that to say, Evie knew she’d have to have children someday if she wanted to marry well, as the production of an heir was all but written into the contract. But she’d never given much consideration into what kind of mother she wanted to be.

  Or what kind of father she wanted for her children.

  Wealth and prestige were much more important factors in determining a suitable husband. At least, they had been until Weston absently rubbed the lamb’s ear and Evie’s heart did an odd pitter-pat inside of her chest.

  “We should call her Posy,” she whispered, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes.

  “Posy the lamb,” he snorted quietly. “How original.”

  “What would you name her, then?”

  “Nothing. I am calling it nothing, because we’re giving it back.”

  No, she thought silently as she watched Weston unknot his cravat and drape it over Posy so that the lamb’s delicate pink nose wouldn’t be burned by the sun, I really don’t think we are.

  If someone had bet Weston fifty pounds that he would soon find himself responsible for a beautiful American and an orphaned lamb while stranded in the middle of the countryside, he’d have laughed and ordered the poor sot to hand over the money outright.