Entranced by the Earl

by Eaton, Jillian

  “My name is Miss Rosemary Stanhope. I am under the guardianship of my grandmother, Lady Ellinwood.”

  The duke’s gaze showed no signs of recognition.

  “My cousins are Miss Evelyn and Miss Joanna Thorncroft,” she tried as a last resort.

  “That’s why you appear so familiar to me. You look like them.”

  “I do?” she asked, inordinately pleased by the comparison. Evie and Joanna were two of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen. If the duke thought she and her cousins shared similar characteristics, then that could only mean he considered her to be beautiful as well. Evie’s refashioning had worked! Before all that awful bandoline had been yanked out of her hair, no one had ever told her that she was beautiful. Mostly because they’d never taken the time to notice her, but also because she wasn’t. Beautiful, that is. But who was she to argue with the Duke of Hanover? Even though he hadn’t said as much in so many words, the implication was almost certainly there!

  “Eh…” Lurching to his feet, he scraped a hand across the bristle covering his jaw and peered at her more closely. “Maybe not.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment caused her shoulders to hunch, a bad habit that her grandmother had been trying unsuccessfully to break her of since adolescence. “That’s–that’s quite all right.”

  “’Tis your eyes. They’re not blue enough.”

  “I’m…sorry?” she offered.

  Without warning, the duke reached out and cupped her chin. His countenance a study in concentration, he turned her head from side to side, then brought their faces intimately together. Another half-inch, and their noses would be touching.

  “Remarkable,” he breathed.

  Her chest rose and fell in quick succession. “What–what is?”

  “Your eyes. The color of them. I’ve never seen the like before. Like the hazy light of dawn after a night filled with storms when everything is wet and ruined except for the sky. It’s neither blue, nor gray, nor violet. But a combination of all three that tells the sailors the danger has passed and they can set their compasses for home.” His thumb traced the edge of her jaw in a feathery-soft touch that caused her breath to quicken, and then stop altogether. “That’s what color your eyes are, Rebecca. The color of home.”

  He gazed at her a moment more. And for an instant, Rosemary actually thought she might be kissed by the Duke of Hanover. Then he shook his head, as if waking from a trance. He grinned, gave a wink, and then he was gone, whistling a merry tune under his breath as he sauntered out of the parlor, leaving an open door and a shocked wallflower in his wake.

  “Rosemary,” she whispered, running her fingertips across her cheek where his hand had burned into her flesh. “My name is Rosemary.”

  Weston was going to murder Evie.

  After falling face first into the mud and crawling his way to shore, he had collapsed, exhausted, onto the bank…whereupon, he’d been chased away from the pond by a pair of hissing swans. Vowing to place swan stew on the dinner menu, he had retreated to the manor. But no sooner had he placed one muddy foot inside than Brynne had ordered him to go clean up in the stables.

  “You stink,” she’d told him, her nose wrinkling as she waved a hand in front of her face. “What happened? Never mind. I don’t even want to know. I’ll have your valet send out a change of clothes. Just make yourself presentable. And be sharp about it, as the breakfast is about to start and you are performing the opening toast.”

  And that was how the esteemed Earl of Hawkridge found himself to be bathing in a horse trough while dreaming up all sorts of ways to make Evie suffer for having the audacity to walk away from him. When he saw her again…when he saw her again, he had half a mind to draw her over his knee, flip up her skirts, and spank her bottom red.

  Although that was likely to be more of an enticement than a punishment.

  Bloody hell.

  Even when he was furious with her, he still desired her.

  Closing his eyes, Weston dunked his entire head into the cold water and ran his fingers through his hair. When he was finally cleaned, he emerged from the trough and met the amused gaze of his valet, Albert Jenkins, who’d been in his employ for the better part of a decade.

  “Don’t say a word,” he warned.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, my lord,” Jenkins replied even as his brown eyes twinkled with merriment.

  Cursing under his breath, Weston toweled himself dry and dressed quickly in the attire his valet had provided. Jenkins, always mindful of small details, had even brought out a jar of pomade and Weston used it to slick his hair straight back in a stern, formidable style that perfectly matched his current mood.

  “Has everyone assembled in the solarium?” he asked.

  Jenkins nodded. “Everyone but you, my lord. Lady Smethwick and her daughter, in particular, are looking forward to seeing you.”

  Weston didn’t know why that information should cause his mouth to sour, as if he’d bitten into a lemon. He liked Martha. She was an excellent conversationalist, mostly because she never argued or tried to provoke him. Unlike a certain American that he knew. Time spent with her was akin to a pleasant ride through Hyde Park during the height of the promenade hour. Alternately, being in the company of Evie was like a wild, reckless ride through the Scottish moors with perilous cliffs looming at every turn.

  “When did Lady Martha and her mother arrive?” he questioned absently. Proper decorum dictated that he should have been there to welcome them personally to Hawkridge Manor. And Martha’s mother, a thin woman with prominent eyebrows that he suspected (but had not yet confirmed) were drawn on, was nothing if not properly decorous.

  “Half an hour ago, my lord,” Jenkins replied.

  No so long, then. Surely his future mother-in-law wouldn’t harbor a grudge over thirty minutes. Not that he particularly cared either way; he wasn’t marrying Lady Smethwick, after all. But neither did he care to be the recipient of passive aggressive glares across the table while he was trying to enjoy his bacon and poached eggs.

  It went without saying that he would have greeted them…if he hadn’t been trapped waist-deep in mud. For that, he blamed Evie. As well as that troublesome lamb of hers.

  He never should have gotten involved to begin with. But when he’d heard Evie cry out, his first instinct had been to run to her as fast as humanly possible. And when he saw those luminous blue eyes wet with tears…how could he not have held her? In that moment of heartbreak and hopelessness, he would have gladly traveled to heaven itself if that’s what it took to get Posy back. He’d have traded his wealth. His title. His properties. Everything–anything–to heal Evie’s hurt.

  Then it turned out that Posy wasn’t dead, just missing. But instead of calling up a footman to go searching for the lamb, as any reasonable earl would have done, as he should have done, he’d gone to find her himself. In the midst of a house party. With his esteemed peers waiting for him below stairs and his soon-to-be fiancée arriving any second, he had raced off with Evie. As if she were the only person that mattered. And the worst part…even worse than the filthy muck and the attack swans (however, they came in a close second)…was how terrifyingly right it had felt to do so. To abandon all of his commitments and responsibilities to focus solely on Evie. To make her, for however brief a time, the center of his universe. To put her needs above all else. And, most importantly, to make her smile again.

  That was all he’d wanted to do when he had set off to find Posy.

  To take away Evie’s tears…and replace them with a smile.

  The kind that lit up her entire face and made the corners of her eyes crinkle and her nose scrunch.

  Like when she’d gotten foxed and doubled over with laughter at absolutely nothing. Or the wondrous grin that had captured her mouth when he’d caught her peering over the stall at the newborn foal.

  If he could bring that smile back to her face, all would be well.

  And it had been.

  For approximately four seconds.
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br />   Until she got some idea in her head that they “were going to have a chat”.

  Six little words that had been striking fear in the hearts of men since the beginning of time.

  She’d ended that tortuous discussion by asking him what he wanted.

  As if he knew anymore.

  As if he had any goddamned idea.

  Weston knew that he wanted poached eggs for breakfast instead of boiled.

  He knew that he wanted to buy another railroad line to expand his empire.

  He knew that he never wanted to bathe in a horse trough ever again.

  But as to what he ultimately wanted in love and in life?

  He’d thought it was a biddable wife to let him carry out his duties sans interruption.

  Now…now he wasn’t so certain.

  And that uncertainty throbbed like a splinter burrowed under his nail bed.

  “Jenkins,” he said abruptly as they entered the house. The foyer was empty, the quiet clink of glassware and the muted hum of voices revealing that everyone had gathered in the solarium where they were waiting for him to deliver his opening toast. The official start of a house party that had already proven to be more trouble than it was worth…and it was only the first day. “I’ve a task for you. One that I’d like carried out with the utmost discretion.”

  “Anything, my lord.”

  “I need a complete list of all the eligible bachelors in attendance. Their names and titles along with how much they are worth. If they’ve any debts outstanding, or improprieties attached to their names. I should also like to know any pertinent hobbies.” He paused. “Also, if they are fond of animals. Specifically of the woolly variety.”

  “Woolly variety, my lord?” asked Jenkins, appearing mystified.

  “Sheep,” he said impatiently. “I need to know if they like sheep.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying, that is oddly specific.”

  Weston’s jaw tensed. “Can you get the list or not?”

  “I should have it for you by the end of the day.”

  “Good. Good,” he repeated, and he started to run his hand through his hair before he remembered that he’d set it with wax. Muttering another curse, he excused his valet and took care to compose himself before he set out for the solarium to give his welcome address.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You are staring,” Rosemary whispered in Evie’s ear for the third time.

  Nearly bobbling her fork, Evie managed to catch the utensil before it dropped into her lap. On a sigh, she set it down beside her plate. She hadn’t been using it anyway; her appetite having vanished as soon as she joined her cousin and the rest of the guests for breakfast and her gaze landed upon Lady Martha Smethwick.

  She’d known it was Lady Martha without needing to be told, as Weston’s intended bride was exactly as Evie had pictured her. Slim as a willow, with golden hair and large brown eyes (such an easy color to remember that Evie suspected the earl had been playing her for a fool in the carriage when he’d pretended not to recall their shade), Martha was the epitome of an English Rose. Everything about her, from the graceful way in which she sipped her glass of water to the sound of her voice to the way she cut into her bacon, was perfect.

  She was perfect.

  Of course, Weston would want to marry her.

  If Evie was an earl in search of a wife, she’d want to marry Martha as well.

  Even her laugh sounded like wind chimes.

  It was quite irritating, actually. But for all that Martha’s presence set Evie’s teeth on edge, she couldn’t seem to make herself look away.

  Thus the staring.

  “What can you tell me about her?” she asked Rosemary in a low tone so as not to be overheard by the other guests. The table–the longest she’d ever sat at–was filled to overflowing with all facets of the British aristocracy. There were lords and ladies. Dukes and viscounts. Businessmen and scholars. It would take Evie a day, if not more, to learn everyone’s name. This even after they’d all gone around at Brynne’s invitation and introduced themselves.

  When it was Evie’s turn, there’d been an excited buzz of chatter. Much to her surprise, it had rapidly dwindled. Given the stir that she and Joanna had made when they attended the Countess of Beresford’s ball, she’d been expecting all sorts of questions and gossip. But it appeared the ton had a short attention span, and while the return of Lord Dorchester’s illegitimate daughter and her sister had made headlines last week, they were already sniffing after a more exciting scandal. Especially given that Evie’s mere presence at the house party indicated that the Westons had accepted their American blood into the family fold with no more drama to be had.

  “Who?” Rosemary asked as she slathered butter onto a piece of toasted bread. She peered at Evie’s untouched plate of food. “Are you going to eat your eggs?”

  “Take whatever you’d like. And I want to know about Lady Martha Smethwick.”

  “Oh.” Biting off a piece of bread, Rosemary chewed thoughtfully. “There’s not much to tell, really.”

  “Is she positively awful?” Evie asked hopefully. “Does she kick small puppies and terrorize children?”

  Rosemary blinked. “Not that I’ve ever seen. She is always kind to me. One of the few diamonds that is.”

  “Diamonds?”

  “A term used in the ton to describe a debutante of the highest quality,” her cousin explained. “It’s not as common nowadays, but were Lady Martha born at the beginning of the century, that’s what everyone would have called her. I’m more of a quartz, myself. But Lady Martha…definitely a diamond of the first water.” Rosemary stabbed a chunk of roasted potato with her fork. “Did you know she is rumored to soon be engaged to the Earl of Hawkridge? Grandmother heard whispers that it might even happen here, during the house party.”

  “I’ve heard.” As Evie slumped in her chair, she wished she could slide right under the table. Having seen her competition firsthand, she recognized that her plan to woo Weston away from Martha had been a fool’s errand all along. She may have been a diamond in Somerville, but in England, without a title or a dowry or any social influence of which to speak of, she found herself in the same category as Rosemary.

  Quartz was by no means an ugly or undesirable gem.

  But it certainly did not compare to a diamond.

  Weston was going to marry someone else.

  And there was nothing she could do about it.

  “I…I need some fresh air.” Several heads turned when Evie shoved her chair back and stood up, including Brynne’s, who was seated several chairs over to her left.

  “Are you all right?” Weston’s sister mouthed.

  Evie summoned a tight grin and gave a curt nod. Squeezing behind the row of chairs, she managed to keep her pace at a slow, measured walk until she’d quit the solarium.

  And then she ran.

  “What are you waiting for?” Brynne hissed, giving Weston a sharp nudge with her elbow. “Go after her!”

  His gaze pinned to the door that Evie had just exited through, he brushed off his twin’s demand with an irritated hitch of his shoulder. “You’ve only just finished chastising me for being late to the breakfast, and now you want me to leave in the middle of it?”

  “There are some things more important than proper etiquette.”

  “You go after her, then.”

  Brynne sipped her champagne, then flicked him a smug glance over the top of the crystal flute. “I would, but I am not the one she is trying to escape. I don’t know what you did, West, but you need to make it right.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” he snapped, even as his fists clenched into knotted balls of tension beneath the tablecloth. “Unless you count the fact that I rescued her damned lamb. Again.”

  “Is that why you came in dressed like a pig in slop?”

  “I do not wish to discuss it.”

  “Maybe not, but there is clearly something you and Miss Thorncroft do need to discuss.”

&nb
sp; “Why do women always insist on talking about their problems?” he wondered out loud. “Why not do it the manly way, with pistols at dawn? Either one party or both is killed, and whatever issue they may have had is instantly resolved without a single sentence needing to be exchanged.”

  “Because dueling is illegal, and the world would be a safer, calmer place if battles were won with words instead of weapons.” She nudged him again. “Go to her, you lummox. Before it is too late.”

  “What do you mean, too late?” he frowned. “The house party has only just started.”

  His twin gazed at him pityingly. “If you truly don’t know the answer, then I’m not sure you can be helped. I do hope that I am wrong. For your sake, as well as Miss Thorncroft’s.”

  “You’re speaking in riddles,” he grumbled. But he couldn’t help but look at the door again. “Someone should check on her. Just to ensure she isn’t choking or in need of some other assistance. Since you cannot be bothered, I suppose it falls upon me as the host to ensure that Miss Thorncroft is all right.”

  The corners of Brynne’s lips twitched. “I suppose it does,” she said gravely.

  “You’re a brat,” he informed her before he pushed his chair back. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “So you’ve told me a thousand times over. Oh, and West?” she said as he stood up and placed his linen napkin on the table.

  He could feel curious eyes upon him, but no one in attendance would dare have the audacity to question his decision to leave the breakfast preemptively. Without meaning to, he glanced at Lady Martha. She was staring demurely at her plate, but must have sensed his shift in attention for her head rose and she met his stare with a pleasant smile which he made a passing attempt at returning.

  She was the one he should have been chasing after, if he was to chase after anyone. That being said, Lady Martha would never quit a room before the meal was over. Nor would she leave him stranded in a pond, or allow him to ravish her in the stables, or hide with him in the bushes while a farmer shot at them for stealing a sheep.