Entranced by the Earl

by Eaton, Jillian

  “Oh.” Her shoulders stiffened. “I see.”

  Bollocks.

  This–this right here–was precisely why he didn’t want a romantic entanglement with Evelyn Thorncroft. Brynne’s opinion on marrying for love be damned.

  Lady Martha would never dare question their relationship, or where they stood. She’d be happy enough just being his wife, and bearing his child, and joining him for tea on occasion. As it should be. As any man in his right mind would want it to be.

  Except he wasn’t in his right mind, was he? Hadn’t been, ever since he’d glanced across the ballroom and seen the most magnificent creature that God had ever seen fit to create.

  “I don’t…” He paused. Took a breath. “I don’t want to injure your feelings.”

  “Don’t you?” Evie asked, canting her head to the side.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then you’ve an amusing way of showing it.” Her eyes glittered. “Should we make a vow not to have another encounter, or save ourselves the breath?”

  Impertinent vixen.

  “What happened in the stables–”

  “Shall never happen again,” she finished. “So you’ve said before.”

  He scowled. “This time I mean it.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I do,” he insisted. “With the other guests soon to join us, these…er…”

  “Lapses in judgment?” she said icily.

  Not, he admitted, his best choice of words.

  “Yes. I mean no.” What was it about Evie that tangled his tongue in knots? “I mean–”

  “You mean you wouldn’t want your precious Lady Martha to catch you fornicating with an American.” Her smile was sweet, and all the more sharp because of it. “I understand.”

  He gritted his teeth. “If you’d let me finish a bloody sentence–”

  “It’s growing late, and I have to change for the receiving dinner. I will see you inside, my lord.” She brushed past him, and he didn’t try to stop her.

  He wouldn’t have known what to say if he did.

  Chapter Eleven

  Evie felt horribly guilty. Or she had felt horribly guilty, until Weston had absolved her of all remorse regarding her deceitful plan to marry him by uttering four hurtful words she wasn’t soon to forget.

  My lapses in judgment.

  That’s all that kissing her meant to him, apparently.

  A lapse in judgment.

  A miscalculation.

  A mistake.

  And to think, she’d been on the brink of telling him that she had come to Hawkridge Manor with ulterior motives in mind. That she did want the ring, and his fortune, and his title, besides. That she did deserve some of the blame he’d just absolved her of.

  The admission had danced on the tip of her tongue for the entirety of their conversation…right up until he’d compared her to a fifth cousin.

  A cousin.

  She wasn’t his cousin, thrice removed or otherwise. There was no blood shared between them. But there was passion. At least, she’d thought there was. Until he had informed her that she was no more than a lapse in judgment.

  The bounder.

  She was of half a mind to gather her things and leave. But that would be tantamount to admitting defeat…which was something Thorncrofts simply did not do. It wasn’t in her to give up, and thus she would keep going forward. All the way to the altar. Because she hadn’t come this far, and gone through this much, to not become a countess.

  The foyer was a bustling hive of activity as footmen and scullery maids alike rushed about, hurrying to complete finishing touches before the first wave of guests descended upon the estate. They filled vases with flowers and glass dishes with colorful candies. Rubbed a final layer of beeswax on any exposed wood to bring out its natural luster, and took care to polish each doorknob until it shone. The drapes were pinned back. Rugs were unrolled. Paintings were hung on the white walls with care and large potted ferns were given a fresh layer of topsoil before being strategically positioned to bring some color into the manor.

  From the front drawing room came the random plinking of keys as the piano was tuned, and in the parlor the loud pop of a cork as sparkling wine was poured into glass flutes arranged on a long table.

  Keeping her head down, Evie was able to slip unnoticed up the stairs and into her bedchamber.

  She’d been looking forward to the receiving dinner with all the giddy delight of a child on Christmas morning, but her interlude with the earl had dampened her spirits.

  Not the kissing part.

  She’d thoroughly enjoyed the kissing part…even if she was mortified by her reaction. She had been so caught up in Weston’s embrace that when he had pulled away without warning, the abruptness of his rejection had made her eyes well with tears.

  He had kissed her, and she had cried, and then he’d called her his cousin.

  Clearly, her plan needed a few modifications.

  Slipping out of her shawl and kicking off her shoes, Evie flopped belly first onto the bed and buried her face in a pillow. She could not remember the last time she’d cried. When she and her sisters had received news of their father’s death, perhaps, because she vividly recalled not crying at his funeral.

  Claire had. From when they’d first entered the church to when they’d left, she’d sniffled quietly into a white linen handkerchief with pink roses embroidered on the corner. Joanna’s grief had been louder, but then such was Joanna. Loud and vivacious in everything she did, even mourning. But Evie…Evie hadn’t shed a single tear.

  She had wanted to. She had tried to. But her eyes had remained dry for the entire service and even after, when they’d laid the wooden casket into the earth, she’d been unable to cry. Her lack of a reaction had garnered more than a few stares, some from her own family, but there was nothing she could do. In a desperate act of salvation, she’d taken all of the grief and loss and love that she’d felt for her father and bottled it up inside of a plain glass jar where it couldn’t hurt her anymore. Then she’d sealed it shut. And in the years that followed, the jar had remained closed.

  The loss of her childhood home hadn’t opened it. Having to part with all of her beloved material possessions and the subsequent abandonment of her friends just made the lid tighter. As had the discovery of her mother’s affair, and the subsequent loss of the ring. She’d wanted to give in to despair when she and Joanna were sailing across the ocean and her head was in a bucket, but she’d been so dehydrated from her sea sickness that the tears hadn’t come.

  Why, then, would she cry over Lord Hawkridge, of all people?

  When she hadn’t managed a tear for her own father.

  Rolling onto her back, Evie stared blankly at the canopy draped over the bedposts. The answer, she feared, was obvious.

  She wasn’t just falling in love with Weston.

  She’d fallen.

  Completely.

  And the lid on the glass jar that she’d poured all of her grief and hurt and heartbreak into had finally wrenched loose.

  She supposed that it wasn’t unexpected. The pressure had been building for days. A culmination of lust, and frustration, and longing. It only made sense that it had to be released, or else the jar–and Evie along with it–would have shattered into a thousand little shards of sorrow and splintered glass. And when Weston had kissed her, and then rejected her, yet again, the jar had finally popped open and her tears had fallen out…along with her heart.

  Which Weston then stole.

  The cad.

  He had her heart, damn him! And she wanted it back. Immediately. Because while marrying the Earl of Hawkridge was part of her plan, being in love with him was not. If she couldn’t trust herself to be kind with her own heart, how could she possibly trust Weston?

  A soft knock sounded at the door; a welcome interruption from the dark turn her thoughts had taken. Quickly running the heel of her hands across her damp cheeks, Evie sat up on her elbows.

  “You may ent
er,” she called, assuming it to be Hannah come to prepare her for the receiving dinner.

  But while a brunette stepped into the room, it wasn’t her lady’s maid.

  “Rosemary!” At the sight of her cousin, Evie sat all the way up and swung her legs over the side of the mattress. “What…what are you doing here? Not to say I’m unhappy to see you,” she clarified hastily when she realized how her words might be taken. “I’m just…surprised.”

  “I was, too, when I received Lady Brynne’s invitation.” Petite and curvy with a heart-shaped face that was perpetually wreathed in a smile and almond-shaped eyes that were a color somewhere between blue and gray, Rosemary Stanhope was their Grandmother Mabel’s niece, twice removed. When Mabel married her American scholar and moved to Somerville, she’d left behind a sister, Dorothea, Lady Ellinwood, who’d chosen to return to her maiden name after the death of her husband, Sir George Stanhope.

  Lady Ellinwood and Sir George had one son, Gregory Stanhope, who eventually married and had a child of his own, before ultimately perishing in a tragic fire along with his wife, leaving their young daughter, Rosemary, to be raised in the care of her grandmother, Lady Ellinwood.

  The Thorncroft sisters hadn’t even known they had a cousin before Evie and Joanna came to London. Another secret kept from them, albeit a good one this time, as Rosemary was delightfully sweet…if a tad eccentric.

  “You didn’t bring Sir Reginald, did you?” asked Evie, referring to Rosemary’s pet squirrel.

  “I would have,” Rosemary said in all seriousness, “but he’s feeling under the weather. Too many acorns, you understand. I ordered him to remain at home and rest up.”

  “Probably for the best,” Evie said solemnly.

  “Indeed. Do you mind if I…?” Rosemary glanced at the bed.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable.” Scooting closer to the headboard, Evie patted the empty space beside her, and as her cousin climbed onto the mattress, a pang of homesickness caught her off guard.

  Even though they’d three beds between them, she and her sisters had often sat just like this. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, they had made some of their most important life decisions crammed together on top of the blankets. Like kittens in a basket, their grandmother had been fond of saying. An apt analogy, as it was never long before one of them started swatting at the other. But when they’d all gotten along, and their room had rung with the sound of their laughter, it had been nothing less than pure magic.

  “Thank you.” The crinoline beneath Rosemary’s skirts rustled as she drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them. Her dress was a medium tan, with a higher neckline than was fashionable and sleeves that extended all the way past her elbows and ended in a tuft of lace. It was a spinsterly garment; far too old for a young woman who’d not yet seen her twentieth birthday.

  When they’d first met, Rosemary had mentioned that she was not a member of the popular set. Evie had assumed it was because of Sir Reginald, but now she suspected it had more to do with the way her cousin presented herself. The ton could overlook a squirrel or a severe hair part. But not both.

  It was a shame, really. Underneath the voluminous gown and brown curls that had been slicked to the side of her head, Rosemary was very pretty. A softer hairstyle, a silhouette that helped flaunt her natural figure instead of hide it, and she’d be beautiful.

  “I hope you do not mind my intrusion,” Rosemary went on. “But when I arrived, and Lady Brynne shared that you were already here, I just had to come right up and see you. Isn’t the estate marvelous? The sheer size is staggering! I’ve never been here before. When our invitation arrived, I had to retrieve my grandmother’s smelling salts! We’ve you and Joanna to thank for that.”

  Evie’s brow knitted in confusion. “For your grandmother fainting?”

  Rosemary gasped. “No! No, I didn’t mean…for the summons to come here. Grandmother claims it’s because Lord Hawkridge has his eye on me, which is utter hogwash. The poor man probably still walks with a limp after our one and only dance last Season.”

  “You should have stomped on him harder,” Evie muttered under her breath.

  “What was that?”

  “I said that you should not underestimate yourself. You have excellent bone structure, Cousin. And the color of your hair is divine.”

  Rosemary’s shoulders hunched. “That is kind of you to say, but…it’s just plain brown.”

  “It is mahogany,” Evie corrected. “And chestnut, with underlying notes of caramel. I’d love to have such depth and dimension in mine.” She absently touched her own coiffure, then grazed her fingertips across Rosemary’s tightly wound bun. Her nose wrinkled. “Perhaps a little less bandoline.”

  Gummy in texture, and hard as a rock when it dried, liquid bandoline was a popular fixture. Evie had never liked it, herself. She found the smell distasteful, and even though it had never happened to her–heaven forbid–she’d once heard a story of a girl whose hair had fallen out because of it.

  “Grandmother swears by the stuff,” said Rosemary.

  “I can see that.” Evie hesitated. “Does your grandmother also select your wardrobe?”

  “Down to the stockings,” her cousin said ruefully as she lifted her skirts to reveal homely cotton hosiery with nary a shiny button or ribbon embellishment to be seen. “I know my attire is sorely out of date, but Grandmother believes that drawing unwanted attention upon oneself by one’s wardrobe is in poor taste. I should win a man’s favor with my feminine charm and wit. Never mind that I haven’t any.”

  “Grandmother” sounded like a stodgy old schoolmarm with a penchant for wooden rulers.

  “You needn’t dress provocatively to be noticed,” Evie allowed. “But your clothes should reflect your personality, and from what I know of you thus far, you’re much more bright and beguiling than this gown would suggest.”

  Rosemary flushed. “Do you know, I believe that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, but you shouldn’t be receiving compliments from me. You should be getting them from your suitors.”

  “Suitors?” her cousin giggled. “Oh, I don’t have any of those either. Unless Sir Reginald counts.”

  “He does not,” Evie said firmly. “If you’d like, I can help you achieve a more modern appearance. It wouldn’t hardly take any effort at all. We’d start by washing all of that awful bandoline out of your hair, and then making a few tiny alterations to your attire. That tan is doing nothing for your complexion.” She smiled confidently. “You’ll be turning heads in no time.”

  “I couldn’t possibly ask so much of you, especially during a house party,” Rosemary protested even as her eyes lit with thinly veiled excitement. “But it would be nice to feel fashionable for once. To have people look at me not out of pity, but because they actually think I am pretty.”

  “You are pretty. Beautiful, really. And to be honest, I’d prefer the distraction.” Evie smoothed a wrinkle on the coverlet and sighed. “The house party hasn’t exactly gone as I…anticipated it would.”

  “But it hasn’t even started! Surely nothing too awful could have happened yet.”

  “You’d be surprised,” she said wryly.

  Rosemary patted her hand. “It’ll be all right, now that we’re together. I normally have to depend on the company of my books to keep me occupied at these sorts of social events. I cannot tell you have pleased I am to have you here with me, especially since I had to leave Sir Reginald behind. I do hope he’s not too cross. Squirrels, as you know, are quite finicky.”

  Evie did not know, but since she had more or less adopted a lamb, she was hardly in a position to judge Rosemary for her unusual attachment to a rat with a furry tail.

  From what she’d learned of her cousin thus far, it was apparent that Rosemary was lonely and kept mostly to herself. Which was understandable, given the ironclad way with which Lady Ellinwood yielded control over every facet of her granddaughter’s life. But th
at didn’t make it acceptable.

  Evie and her sisters were raised from an early age to be independent, and to think for themselves. That upbringing had fostered a sense of self-reliance that had helped see them through the difficulties of the last few years, and Evie was loath to imagine what might have happened to them if they’d been forced to live trapped beneath their grandmother’s thumb.

  Certainly, she and Joanna would never have had the courage to travel halfway around the world. Although, in hindsight, she didn’t know whether that decision was brave so much as it was foolhardy. Maybe she would have been better served to have stayed in the parlor with a pile of books. At least then she wouldn’t have gone and fallen in love with an earl who considered her to be nothing more than a lapse in judgment.

  The lout.

  “Your grandmother came with you, I presume?” she asked in a deliberate attempt to steer her thoughts away from Weston.

  Rosemary nodded. “She is just getting settled in. Traveling upsets her gout. Will Joanna be joining us today or tomorrow?”

  “I am afraid she won’t be joining us at all, as she is currently on a very large ship headed for Boston.”

  “That’s strange. She did not mention she was leaving when we had coffee yesterday.”

  “You had coffee with my sister?” said Evie, startled.

  “Yes, at a lovely little tea shop in Mayfair. Their cider cakes with spiced jam are positively divine, and the snowdon pudding is–”

  “I’m sorry,” Evie cut in. “But just to make sure I am understanding you correctly, you spoke with Joanna yesterday. As in, the day before this one.”

  “Was I not meant to? I’m sorry.” Sliding off the bed, Rosemary wrung her hands together as she edged towards the door. “I have overstepped. I tend to do that. It’s why I don’t have many friends, I fear. Or any friends really, except for Sir Reginald. Who I know is a squirrel.” She gave a slight, self-deprecating smile. “But he never mocks me, and he listens, and occasionally he even chatters back. Which is more than I can say for anyone else in the ton.”