Entranced by the Earl

by Eaton, Jillian

  “Yes, we should,” she agreed.

  But neither of them moved, and as the air grew noticeably heavier, Evie wound her arms around her chest to brace herself against the brewing tempest.

  “Do you still plan to ask for Lady Martha’s hand in marriage?”

  “No. Yes.” He raked his fingers through his hair, and muttered a curse. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know,” she repeated slowly. “Tell me, Lord Hawkridge, what is it you do know?”

  His eyes, as dark and volatile as a storm cloud, shot to hers. “I know that I should not desire you as I do. I know that it was easier when I hated you. And I know…I know that no matter what I do, I cannot stop thinking about you. Those are the things that I know.”

  It was better than the cold slap of rejection that she had anticipated.

  But it was far from the declaration of love that she needed.

  “Then let me tell you the things I know,” she said, proudly lifting her chin. “I know that I will not be a second choice. Not for you. Not for anyone. And I know that I will not leave my heart in your hands indefinitely. So take care to treat it kindly while you have it, Lord Hawkridge. For you may miss it far more than you realize when it’s gone.”

  With that dire warning, she left the kitchen to seek her bed…and pray for a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning, Evie slept past breakfast and awoke to discover that the majority of the houseguests had made their way to the village for an afternoon of shopping and a tour of the local sights. She considered joining them, but decided to remain at Hawkridge Manor instead in the hopes that some peace and quiet might settle her thoughts.

  When she went downstairs, with Posy bouncing energetically behind her, she discovered she wasn’t the only one who had forgone a trip to the village.

  “Your Grace,” she greeted the Duke of Hanover upon finding him sitting by himself in the solarium. “I did not expect to see you here. Are the local sights of no interest to you?”

  “As the pub doesn’t open until after two, no, not really.” He tipped his cup of coffee towards the sideboard. “The eggs have gone cold, but the salmon isn’t half-bad. Won’t you join me for a belated breakfast, Miss Thorncroft?”

  “I would be happy to, although I shall pass on the salmon. I must confess I’ve never had much of an appetite for fish.” Filling a plate with fresh cantaloupe sliced into neat squares and a few thin slices of beef, she also made sure to spoon blueberries into a bowl for Posy (the lamb had already devoured two bottles of warm milk) before sitting across from the duke who was studying Posy with a raised brow.

  “Does it bite?” he asked warily.

  “Posy?” Evie said with a laugh. “No, she is completely harmless, I can assure you.”

  “I knew a French count who kept a pet tiger in his bedchamber.” Sterling scratched his freshly shaven jaw. Unlike the last time they’d met, he looked–at least by all outward appearances–to be sober and was handsomely dressed in a navy blue jacket with a high collar, satin waistcoat, gray breeches, and leather boots splattered lightly with mud, indicating he’d recently come from a ride.

  “Oh?” she said, stabbing a piece of fruit with her fork.

  “It went well, for a time. Until the tiger ate him.”

  Evie paused with the cantaloupe halfway to her lips. “The tiger…ate the count?”

  “Indeed. Very messy affair. His heir was pleased, though.” The edge of Sterling’s mouth curled. “He was the one who gave the count the tiger.”

  “Surely you jest.”

  “Most times, yes. But never about anything as serious as premediated murder by jungle cat.”

  “How horrific for the poor count.”

  “I feel worse for the tiger, to be honest. Lord Dubois was a small little weasel of a man. He couldn’t have tasted very good. Probably quite chewy.”

  “An unfortunate event all the way around then,” Evie said solemnly.

  “Indeed. Well, now that we’ve gotten the gruesome death and maiming portion of our discussion out of the way…how are things proceeding? With our Lord Hawkridge, that is. Still madly in love with him?”

  She frowned. “I was hoping you might have forgotten I said that due to your…ah…”

  “Drunken stupor?” He grinned at her. “No need to dance around the truth on my account. And while I only vaguely recall you begging to be my mistress and me doing the honorable thing and declining to preserve your womanly–”

  Evie gave an unladylike snort. “Is that how you remember it?”

  “Yes. I’m sure that is precisely how it happened.”

  “What an interesting memory you possess, Your Grace.”

  “Sterling,” he corrected. “As I was saying, while I do not recollect our conversation by the stairs, I do remember, in great, embarrassing detail, everything that was spoken on the terrace. Give or take a few sentences here and there. By the by, did you happen to see what happened to the hat I was wearing? It happened to be my–”

  “Second favorite,” she interrupted. “Yes, so you told me. After you threw it over the balcony.”

  The duke’s brows knitted. “Did I?”

  Evie nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “That explains why my valet hasn’t been able to find it among any of my belongings. Maybe I’ll wait before telling him,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s kept Higgins busy, at any rate. Now, where were we, Miss Thorncroft? Ah, that’s right. You were about to tell me how you could be in love with a scoundrel like Hawkridge and not with a perfectly honorable, well-behaving gentleman like me.”

  “Well-behaving?” she said, the edges of her mouth twitching. “You propositioned me on a landing, Your Grace.”

  “Although, as I said, my recollection of that particular part of the evening is blurry at best…that does sound like something I would do,” he admitted.

  “As far as how I came to be in love with Weston…” On a sigh, Evie laid down her fork and glanced woefully at Posy, who had finished off the blueberries and was licking the bowl with some enthusiasm. “If I knew that, I would immediately make myself fall out of love with him.”

  “Going that well, is it?” Sterling said dryly.

  “It is not going anywhere,” she said in frustration. “Aside from a few passionate encounters–”

  “Do tell,” the duke breathed.

  “–it seems as if we’re right where we started. Weston still plans to ask Lady Martha Smethwick to marry him, and to make matters even worse, he wants to find me a husband. A repayment in kind, he said, for taking my mother’s ring and robbing my sisters and me of financial independence.”

  “Odd, I never fancied Lord Hawkridge as a matchmaker.”

  “He’s not.” Reaching beneath the table, she gave Posy an absent pat between her ears. “If he cannot even match himself with the right person, I’ve no idea how he plans to match me. I think it’s just a means to keep me distracted.”

  “Or a way to keep you at Hawkridge Manor.”

  “Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “If he really wanted to keep me here, he could simply propose.”

  “Ah, but what kind of story would that make?” Sterling asked. “The cold-hearted earl and the gorgeous American meet, fall in love, and get married? The readers would perish of boredom before the fifth chapter. There needs to be angst, my dear. Emotional turmoil. Will-they-or-won’t-they. High drama at its finest. That’s what makes a good romance.”

  “Why, Your Grace,” she said with some amusement. “Have you been reading Austen?”

  Sterling crossed his arms. “Even if I had, I’d never admit it.”

  “Then you’ve no opinion on Mr. Darcy?”

  “That tosser?” The duke’s lip curled. “Elizabeth could have done a far sight better.”

  “He came around in the end.” And so, she hoped, would Weston. “Have you ever been in love, Your Grace?”

  “Yes,” he said darkly. “I wouldn’t recommend it.” />
  “Neither would I. I hadn’t planned to, you know. Fall in love with Weston, that is.” She placed her elbow on the table and plopped her chin into the palm of her hand. She shouldn’t have been admitting such intimate thoughts and feelings to a man who was, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger. Not to mention a duke, besides. But she felt comfortable around Sterling in the same way that she felt comfortable around Joanna. And without her elder sister to confide in, a renowned rake and libertine would have to make do. “I just wanted to marry him for his money and title.”

  Sterling patted his chest. “A woman after my own heart.”

  “Then somewhere between there and here, that all changed.” Her shoulders slumped. “This is why I never wanted to fall in love. Especially with someone who did not reciprocate my feelings.”

  “Weston is madly in love with you,” Sterling said confidently, as if he were declaring that the sky was blue or water was wet. “He’s just too much of a stubborn arse to admit it. Give him a bit more time yet to get his head on straight. Once he does, you’ll have your Mr. Darcy.”

  There were striking similarities between Weston and Jane Austen’s fictional protagonist. They were both aloof, unapproachable, emotionally detached men. Why, Mr. Darcy even had a sister! But that was fiction, she reminded herself. And this was real life. And even though Miss Austen had been immeasurably talented, even she could not have dreamed up a character as impossibly stubborn and infuriatingly obtuse as Weston Weston, Earl of Hawkridge. Even if she had, what heroine would have possibly been foolish enough to fall in love with such a man?

  “How can you be so certain?” she asked Sterling glumly.

  “Because he’s as miserable as you are. And if that isn’t a sign of being in love, I don’t know what is. Chin up, my dear,” he said encouragingly. “If Hawkridge ends up being too blind to see what’s right in front of his face, then you could always marry me and become a duchess. Depending on if I’m summoned before the House of Lords and convicted of murder, you might never have to see me. Just spend my wealth as you see fit.”

  “It wouldn’t be the most terrible thing in the world,” she allowed.

  Sterling grinned. “That’s the spirit!”

  When Posy bounded over to the door, her little tail wagging, Evie stood up. While the lamb possessed remarkable intelligence for such a small creature and was very nearly housebroken, she wasn’t completely immune to accidents.

  “Have a good rest of your day, Your Grace. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

  “For the last time, it’s Sterling,” he admonished lightly. “And I’m sure we will. Best of luck, Miss Thorncroft. You’re damned well going to need it.”

  After a long, tediously dull dinner, Weston accompanied his houseguests out to the gardens where torches lit the night sky and cool, crisp air hinted of autumn nights soon to come.

  Brynne had organized a popular parlor game for them all to play, but given the number of people involved, had decided to host it outside. After directing all of the men to the left side of the garden and all of the women to the right, she gave each lady an unwound spool while to the gentlemen she handed the end of a piece of thread that had been twisted around bushes, across fountains, and under statues, creating a veritable maze of colorful string.

  Often played with the lights dimmed or, in this case, outside in a dark labyrinth of narrow stone pathways and towering hedges, the game was little more than an excuse to kiss or fondle a comely lady–or lord–without repercussion or judgment.

  “Every person had been randomly assigned a partner,” Brynne announced to a flurry of excited titters and giggles. “The first couple to unite their spool with the end of their thread shall be declared the winner! Are you ready?”

  “Last time I did one of these, Lady Dunlop groped my bollocks,” Sterling grumbled from beside Weston where they stood shoulder to shoulder at the end of the line.

  “The dowager countess is nearly eighty years of age and half-blind,” Weston said mildly. “I’m sure it was an accident.”

  “She knew exactly what she was doing.”

  “How was it?”

  The duke shrugged. “Wasn’t the worst grab and tickle I’ve ever had. Who are you hoping you’re paired with? Lady Martha, I suppose.”

  “I haven’t given it much thought,” Weston lied.

  Normally, such frivolous games were beneath his level of interest. Something to endure rather than enjoy. But as he glanced at the string he had tied around his wrist so as not to lose it in the dark, he couldn’t escape the knowledge that there was only one woman he wanted to find on the other end.

  And it wasn’t Martha Smethwick.

  For the entire dinner, and the hours preceding it, he had tried to gain Evie’s attention. But whether by accident or design, her focus had always been on another. And when he’d seen her speaking exclusively with Mr. Greer during dessert, it had taken all of the self-control he had in him not to launch across the table and demand that his fellow board member immediately remove his hand from the back of Evie’s chair lest Weston cut it off with a bread knife.

  Jealousy was such an ugly emotion. Red, angry, and pulsing. Like a pustule that needed to be lanced.

  But it was also revealing.

  Even more so for Weston, as he’d never experienced jealousy like that before. He’d never felt strongly enough about someone to experience it before.

  Until Evie waltzed into his arms…and turned his entire bloody world upside down.

  He could go on, ignoring the obvious. Put his head to the ground and plow ahead with the life he’d planned. The life he’d told himself that he wanted. The life he’d convinced himself that he needed. But while Weston recognized his own obstinacy, he refused to submit to stupidity. And that’s what ignoring Evie and his feelings for her would be.

  Sheer, unforgivable, stupidity.

  Because what they had between them…it was more than a physical attraction. It was deeper than a passing fascination. And it wasn’t going away. Not if he found her a husband. Not if he married Lady Martha. Not even if he put a thousand miles and a thousand years between them.

  Yesterday, today, tomorrow…it would always be Evie.

  No matter what obstructions he threw in their path.

  No matter what lies he told himself.

  No matter what lies he told her.

  For there was one more thing that he knew. One thing he’d kept from her in the kitchen. One thing he could not–he dared not–tell her. And what was a lie, if not telling someone the truth? Even if that truth meant stepping off the edge of a cliff and falling into the unknown.

  “What are you two still doing here?” Brynne asked, frowning at both Weston and Sterling as she approached, carrying a small lantern. “If you hadn’t noticed, the game has started.”

  Blinking, Weston realized belatedly that all of the guests had begun following their strings while he’d been trapped inside his own head. There was much shouting, high-pitched giggling, and even a few curses as men and women alike were forced to crawl under benches, through flowerbeds, and even over each other.

  “Why don’t you have to play?” Sterling demanded.

  “Because someone has to declare the winner.” Brynne’s hazel eyes glittered with amusement. “And because I don’t want to.”

  “Well that’s not fair.”

  “When you organize a house party, you may set whatever rules you wish. In the meantime, go.” She pointed her finger at Sterling, then gave her brother a not-so-gentle push. “Your participation is mandatory, not suggested.”

  Sterling turned beseechingly to Weston. “Hawkridge, my dearest friend–”

  “I am not going to argue with my sister on your behalf.”

  “Pox on both of you.” Drawing his string taut, the duke headed off in the direction of a mulberry tree, grumbling under his breath all the while.

  “Who have you paired him up with this year?” Weston asked, lifting a brow.

/>   Brynne’s smile was secretive, and a tad mischievous. “Someone I think he’ll be pleasantly surprised by.”

  “And my partner?”

  “You know I cannot tell you that.”

  “As long as it’s not Lady Dunlop.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I hear she’s quite the minx.”

  Brynne stared at him in astonishment. “Weston.”

  “What?” he said defensively. “Do I’ve something on my face?”

  “No, you told a jest. And you’re grinning.”

  “People tell jests all of the time.”

  “Maybe, but you don’t.”

  He rolled his eyes at that. “It was a quip, Bry. And not a particularly clever one at that. You needn’t act as if you’ve just uncovered the Eighth Wonder of the World.”

  “Maybe not the eighth. But seeing my brother happy is a wonder.” Her gaze softening, she reached out and tugged the thread around his wrist. “Best start following this, West. I’ve a feeling you are going to like what it leads you to.”

  Chapter Twenty

  After tearing her gown on a rosebush, sinking up to her ankles in a puddle, and having her bottom “accidentally” grabbed by Lord Ellis, Evie decided to sit on a bench and wait for her Prince Charming to come to her.

  Let him fend off the thorns and the mud and the lecherous old men. She’d just sit here, thank you very much, and count the stars.

  She was nearing number eighty-seven when she heard the crack of a branch. The bench her string had led her to was isolated from the rest of the garden by a circle of shrubbery. There was a fountain in the middle, its marble basin reflecting the silvery light of a full moon, and a single stone pathway leading in and out.

  While she’d been waiting for her (very late) prince to arrive, Evie had heard any number of couples successfully finding each other, their union generally marked with clapping…or, in a few notable instances, the rustle of fabric and telltale silence. She didn’t have a way to account for exactly how many guests still remained in the game, but she had a feeling it wasn’t many. For all she knew, she and her partner were the last ones left.