Entranced by the Earl

by Eaton, Jillian

  “Sterling, then.” What a shame, she thought silently, that she’d met him after Weston. Especially since the Duke of Hanover was everything that the Earl of Hawkridge was not. Amusing, charming, and kind.

  She stole a peek at Sterling, willing herself to feel the same spark for him that she did for Weston. It didn’t even have to be a spark. Just a flicker, really. But much to her annoyance, there was nothing. The duke may have exhibited all of the behavior that she knew Weston was capable of if he’d just lower that damned guard of his, but he wasn’t Weston. Her traitorous heart, against the sound advice of her head, had made its choice. And now she had to live with the consequences.

  “I believe I am going to return inside,” she told Sterling. “But I’d like to thank you for the company.”

  “Happy to provide it.” His grin faded. His eyes grew serious. “I’ve a question to ask you, Miss Thorncroft.”

  “Evie,” she said lightly. “Call me Evie.”

  There might not have been a spark between them, but that did not mean she and Sterling couldn’t be friends. She did like him. In an affable, companion sort of way. Although, given his inebriated state, there was a very good chance he wasn’t even going to remember that they’d even spoken come morning.

  “Evie.” He pivoted away from the railing and took her hands in his. “Would you–is Evie short for something?”

  “Evelyn,” she said, struggling not to giggle at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Standing outside on a terrace holding hands with a drunk duke whom she had no romantic interest in because she had gone and fallen in love with an earl who was incapable of love.

  If she didn’t laugh, she feared she’d start to cry.

  Again.

  “Evelyn,” Sterling declared with great dramatic flair. “I–what was I saying?”

  “You were about to ask me a question.”

  “Ah, that’s right. Evelyn, sweet Evelyn…would you like to be my mistress?”

  Evie stared. “Your mistress.”

  “Indeed,” he said cheerfully. “As it so happens, the position has recently become available. I wasn’t looking to fill it straightaway, to be honest. But you’re you, and I’m me, and us pretty people need to stay together. In bed. Without clothes. Don’t you agree?”

  For the second time in as many days, she found herself rendered utterly speechless. “I…I am incredibly flattered by your offer, but…but I have to decline. I am sorry.”

  “Is it because my previous mistress died under nefarious circumstances?” he said glumly, dropping her hands.

  “There is that,” she acknowledged. “But also because…I’m not sure how to say this, actually, but…”

  “You’re in love with Weston.” Taking out his flask again, Sterling gave it a shake. “Did you drink the rest of my brandy?”

  “No. Your Grace–”

  “Sterling.”

  “Sterling, I…how do you know that?” she blurted. “That I’m…I’m…”

  “In love with Weston,” he repeated.

  Her face heated. “Yes. I haven’t told anyone. I’ve barely admitted it to myself. So how do you know?” Hope kindled in her breast, slight as the breeze created by a butterfly’s wing. “Did-did Weston say something? Or do something to indicate that he…he may feel a similar way about me?”

  “Not a thing,” Sterling replied.

  “Of course he didn’t,” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into her tone as her hope was extinguished. “Why would he? I am a lapse in judgment.”

  How she hated those words! Almost as much as she hated that she couldn’t get them out of her head.

  The duke snorted. “Is that what he told you?”

  “Among other things,” she muttered, glancing at the ground.

  “Weston’s a bloody idiot, especially when it comes to anything to do with love. Due to his father, I suspect.”

  “His father?” Evie looked up. “What did the marquess do?”

  “More like what he did not do. Men don’t discuss such things, you understand.” Sterling gave her a stern look. “It is a threat to our masculinity. But as my odds of remembering this conversation are slim to none, I suppose it won’t cause permanent damage to my exceedingly fragile manhood to tell you that the Marquess of Dorchester was, shall we say, apathetic towards his children. And that is putting it kindly.”

  Evie gasped in dismay. “You mean…you mean he beat them?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. But it might have been kinder if he had, as that would have shown some emotional investment. No, Weston’s father was simply…nonexistent. As much as I could tell, anyway. Weston and I were schoolmates at Eton, and never–not once in four years–did I see the marquess step foot on school grounds. For some reason, Weston still believed he would be there for our convocation. It was the most excited I’d ever seen him.”

  Evie’s heart wrenched as she imagined a young, hopeful Weston, waiting to see his father’s face in the crowd of proud parents. “But the marquess never came, did he?”

  Sterling shook his head. “Sent his solicitor in his place. The cold-hearted bastard. Weston never said a word. Never complained. Never even got angry, as far as I could tell. But the next I saw him, he was…different. More contained. More reserved. As if he’d decided that by shutting himself off from everything and everyone, he would never have to be disappointed like that again.”

  “That’s horrible,” she whispered. But it did help to explain the earl’s standoffish behavior. The way he could burn hot one second, and freeze her out the next. The internal battle he always seemed to be fighting.

  She could barely remember her mother. But her father had helped shape her into the woman she was today. If he hadn’t shown her compassion, or empathy…if he’d never wrapped his arms around her when she was feeling sad, or rested his hand on her shoulder when she needed support…wouldn’t she, too, have become hard? Like clay left untouched when it should have been molded, and shaped, and loved.

  “Maybe if the marchioness had lived…” Sterling shrugged. “Who is to say? All I know is that Weston is who he is, and barring some unforeseen miracle, that’s unlikely to change. But if you should ever like to reconsider being my mistress, I remain at your disposal.” He gave another bow, even more elaborate than the last, and nearly followed his hat over the railing.

  “I should think it is time for both of us to seek our beds,” said Evie, reaching out to steady him. “I am glad we had this opportunity to speak, and I am grateful to have made a friend. But to be clear, I will not be reconsidering anything.”

  Sterling slapped a hand over his heart. “A crushing let down, to be sure.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek to contain her grin. “I am fairly confident that you will not be lacking for attention over the next few weeks.”

  “That is true,” he said, brightening.

  They walked through the terrace doors together and stopped at the base of the staircase. She did not know for how long they’d been outside, but the sconces on the walls had sputtered down to their wicks, causing her to reach for the railing as a guide as she made her way up the steps with Sterling trailing behind.

  “Goodnight,” she told him once they’d reached the top.

  “Sweetest of dreams, darling Evelyn,” he mumbled, his eyes closing as he leaned heavily against the wall. “The one who got away.”

  Rogue, she thought with the same sort of mild affection she might have bestowed upon a brother. “Evie is fine, but I’d prefer Miss Thorncroft in public lest people be led to believe I entertained or even accepted your incorrigible offer.”

  A gray eye slit open. “Ah, but Evelyn is going to drive our good earl mad with envy.”

  Her ears pricked.

  Oh it would, would it?

  Ordinarily, she’d never consider deploying such petty means by which to gain attention. But when Weston had reduced their physical connection to a regrettable error, he’d thrown down a gauntlet. And having purge
d herself of self-pity and tears, she was ready to pick it up.

  “Well, in that case…” she said, a coy smile stealing across her lips. “Evelyn it is.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Late night?” Weston asked Sterling as the two men rode back to Hawkridge Manor after a brisk gallop through the neighboring fields and the duke delivered a jaw-cracking yawn. His fourth, by Weston’s estimation.

  “In fact, it was.” Allowing the gelding he rode its head, Sterling slumped in his saddle and dragged a hand across his face. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks flushed. He’d stopped thrice to take a piss, and had been gulping water from his flask–Weston hoped it was water–like a damned fish. “I might have had a few too many nips of scotch last night.”

  “What gave you that indication?” Weston said dryly as they reached the stable courtyard and dismounted. Or rather, Weston dismounted. Sterling rolled off his horse like a potato sent down a chute and staggered for a bit before ultimately giving in to the demands of gravity and falling straight on his arse.

  Handing his mount to a groom, Weston removed his gloves and tucked them into the waistband of his breeches before he held out his hand and hauled the duke back onto his feet, only to recoil in disgust as a very potent odor invaded his nostrils.

  “Bloody hell, man. You’ve the stench of a distillery.”

  “Aye,” Sterling agreed. “But it’s a fine Scottish distillery.”

  Weston looked at the flask the duke was cradling against his chest like a precious babe, then back at Sterling. His eyes narrowed. “Is that the rest of my–”

  “Glenavon scotch? Indeed.” Sterling’s grin was unrepentant. “As I said, it’s an excellent vintage.”

  “You mean it was an excellent vintage,” Weston grumbled as they walked towards the manor. “That was the last bottle I had.”

  “Then we’ll just have to find Lord Campbell and get another. I’ve heard the Highlands are nice this time of year. Lots of buxom young maidens dashing about in plaid.”

  Weston lifted a brow. “Are whisky and wenches all you think about?”

  “What else is there?” Sterling asked, appearing genuinely confused.

  Ending a long day in the arms of the woman you love and waking up beside her in the morning.

  The thought, as unbidden as it was unwanted, nearly caused Weston to stumble over thin air. As if he’d been the one who had spent the night drinking instead of Sterling. Something he would be hard pressed to do after the fact, given that the duke had polished off his best scotch.

  “Let’s just get you inside and cleaned up,” he said shortly. “There’s a breakfast this morning and a picnic outing planned for this afternoon. If I have to attend, then so do you.”

  “Shoot me now and be done with it,” Sterling groaned.

  Weston knew the feeling.

  For a boy who had once yearned for companionship, it was the very height of irony that he had grown up into a man who despised it.

  The loud noises, the socialization, the fawning attention from mothers who wanted nothing more than for their daughters to become countesses…if not for the obligation he felt to continue the tradition his grandfather had started, he would have ended the house party long ago.

  At least Brynne enjoyed the planning and playing the part of hostess, for as much as it took her away from her painting. A role his twin would be subsequently released from once he was married to Evie.

  No.

  Not Evie.

  Lady Martha, he corrected himself.

  He was going to marry Lady Martha, whose carriage would be arriving within the hour. And Evie was going to marry a respectable nobleman of his choosing (which almost certainly ruled out Sterling, duke or not). They’d see each other occasionally at balls and at the theater, whereupon they would nod and smile politely, the time he’d brought her to rapturous release with the lap of his tongue and clutched her thighs as she trembled against him in tiny little aftershocks of pleasure all but forgotten.

  Yes.

  That was exactly what was going to happen.

  He’d bet his last bottle of Glenavon scotch on it.

  If he had a bottle of Glenavon scotch to bet with.

  As Weston entered the foyer, he was relieved to see that it was blissfully quiet save for the rustling of servants as they dashed hither and yon, their arms filled with an assortment of linens and tea services. Given the early hour, all of the guests were either abed or preparing for the day that lay ahead. He didn’t need to look at the schedule Brynne had given him, complete with dark lines and circles to emphasize the events where his presence was required, to know what was to occur. The first full day of the house party was invariably the same: a grand breakfast in the solarium, followed by a tour of the grounds and then a late outdoor luncheon on a hilltop with magnificent views of the entire estate. In the evening hours, the ladies and gentlemen would retreat to their respective corners, where they’d play whist or sip port and then retire to bed only to do it all over again on the morrow.

  It was to be a long, repetitive month. The same as last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. The only difference of note this year was that when the house party concluded, he would have a fiancée. All he had left to do was pick how and when he wanted to propose.

  Originally, he had planned to wait until the grand ball on the very last night. Take Lady Martha out to the gardens, compliment the way the moonlight shone in her hair or some other such nonsense, and get down on bended knee. She’d undoubtedly burst into tears of joy, he would slip his mother’s ring onto her finger, and they would return to the ballroom to ringing applause.

  It would be a perfectly suitable beginning to a perfectly suitable marriage.

  Except…except he didn’t know what color her eyes were.

  How could he plan a proposal if he didn’t know the color of her eyes?

  He was fairly certain they were brown.

  Or maybe hazel.

  Gray?

  He did know that Lady Martha’s eyes weren’t blue. Or if they were, they paled in comparison to Evie’s vivid cerulean gaze.

  And here he was, thinking about Evie once again.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. Damp with sweat from his ride, it nearly stood on end as he turned his attention to Sterling who’d gone into the adjoining parlor and, by all outward signs, had fallen asleep on a velvet settee.

  “You’re going to frighten the guests,” he said, nudging the duke’s boot as he walked by on his way to a sideboard that had been set with a modest assortment of breads, jams, fruit, and coffee for any early risers who might make their way downstairs in search of a bite to eat before the more formal breakfast was served.

  Pouring himself a cup of dark, aromatic coffee, he added a splash of cream and then settled himself at a spindle-legged table across from Sterling who had begun to snore.

  “Has the duke fallen ill?” Brynne queried some five minutes later when she swept into the parlor, looking as fresh as a daisy in a yellow dress trimmed with white.

  “No, just the victim of a late night with a flask of my best scotch,” Weston said with a disgruntled glance at Sterling. “You’re up early.”

  “I am running nearly half an hour behind, actually. With the Smethwicks and Hodgesons due this morning before breakfast, and an unexpected guest to join us later this afternoon, it is going to be a busy day.” Crossing briskly to the sideboard, she prepared a cup of tea before joining her brother at the table.

  In unison, they sipped their collective beverages and stared at Sterling.

  “If I stood accused of murder, I would probably be driven to drink as well.” Brynne’s nose wrinkled as a particularly loud sound erupted from the duke’s nasal cavities. “Although I’d never snore as loud as that. Heavens, he sounds like a boar.”

  “A dying boar, maybe.”

  “Should we wake him?” she asked.

  “I’d give him a few minutes longer,” Wes
ton said charitably. “Then call for a maid to dump a bucket of cold water on his head.”

  “He won’t take kindly to that.”

  “No, most likely not.”

  Pursing her lips, Brynne blew a spiral of steam off the top of her tea. “Have you spoken to Miss Thorncroft?”

  Coffee nearly sloshed over the rim of Weston’s cup as his hand jolted. He quickly composed himself. “Why would you ask me that?”

  “Because you were looking for her last night at the dinner,” she reminded him. “I was just wondering if you’d found her.”

  “No, I haven’t seen her. Who is the unexpected guest you mentioned?” He set his cup down to glare suspiciously at his sister. “It best not be Joanna Thorncroft.”

  One disruptive American under his roof was more than enough.

  What the devil would he do with two of them?

  “As much as I would like to have our sister here–” Brynne began.

  “Half-sister,” he interrupted.

  She rolled her eyes. “You’ll have to meet Joanna eventually. Sister or half-sister, she is our sister and I should like very much to have some kind of relationship with her, even if it is through letters sent across the Atlantic.”

  “A letter wouldn’t be necessary. According to the Duke of Hanover, it seems Joanna has chosen to temporarily remain in London.”

  “Why, that’s splendid!” Brynne cried. “You may not think so, West, but she and Evie never came here to do us harm. They wanted to find their family, and their mother’s ring. You cannot continue to fault them for that.”

  “I don’t,” he admitted gruffly.

  “You-you don’t?” she asked with marked surprise. “When did you come to that realization?”

  After I kissed Evie and the sun shone brighter, the air tasted sweeter, and my heart started to beat again.

  He grimaced into his coffee. “I may have reacted…rashly when I first discovered our father’s affair. I was angry with him, and I took that anger out on the Thorncrofts. Unfairly, it would appear.”

  “I’ve always found anger to be easier than acceptance,” Brynne said quietly.