Entranced by the Earl

by Eaton, Jillian

  “Over here,” she called out when she heard another branch crack underfoot.

  Rustling leaves, a muttered curse, and then…

  “There you are.” Shooting her a disgruntled glare as he forcibly squeezed his large frame between a pair of boxwoods trimmed into narrow columns, Weston stumbled into the clearing and brushed himself off. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

  “Well I have been right here. Waiting,” she said with pointed emphasis.

  Scowling, he plucked a shiny green leaf out of his hair. “The point of the game is that you follow your string. Not sit on a bench and have me do all the work. Do you have any idea how many damned bushes I’ve crawled through?”

  Lifting her gloved hand, she made a show of studying her fingers in an attempt to disguise her surge of tingling excitement upon seeing him.

  She had spent most of the day in the company of Rosemary. The cousins had made bows for Posy, and then ventured out to the stables to see the newborn foal who was already growing by leaps and bounds. During dinner, she’d found herself in a pleasant conversation with Mr. Greer, a charming businessman, whose knowledge of the rapidly developing railway industry had been both interesting and informative.

  But from sunrise to sunset, even though she’d not spoken to him directly, she found her mind preoccupied with Weston. What he was doing. What he was thinking. If he’d proposed to Martha yet. There was no ring upon the lady’s finger, but with less than a fortnight remaining before the end of the house party, time was of the essence.

  For everyone.

  After her chat with Sterling at breakfast, Evie’s waning hopes that Weston might still come to his senses had been somewhat renewed. But she’d told him the truth when she’d said that she was not going to leave her heart in his care forever.

  Perhaps not even for a fortnight.

  Love required a certain amount of vulnerability…and faith. She had demonstrated both when she’d shared her feelings with Weston by the pond, and again in the kitchen. But she could not continue to remain defenseless indefinitely.

  She did love the earl. Of that, she was certain. But if he continued to deny that love, to turn it away, or worse, to ignore it, then she’d rather have her heart in her own care and be alone than leave it with someone who did not appreciate its value.

  “I am sure I don’t know how many bushes you crawled through,” she replied coolly. “Nor do I particularly care. Can we return to the manor now? Is the game over?”

  “The game is over.” Weston’s shadow, long and lean, rippled across her as he stepped around the fountain and placed his hands on his hips, muscular thighs spread apart and head cocked ever-so-slightly to the left. “But we’re not returning to the manor.”

  At the sheer intensity of his stare, her breath hitched. “We’re–we’re not?”

  “No,” he said. “Not until we’ve gotten some things straight.”

  “What things?” she whispered.

  “It’s become obvious that we cannot continue in this vein. That there are…there are feelings involved. Strong feelings. Feelings that I cannot continue to ignore.”

  This was it, she thought with a quiver of anticipation.

  He is going to tell me that he loves me.

  That he cannot wait to marry me.

  That he wants to spend the rest of his life with me.

  “Yes?” she prompted when he fell silent. “What else?”

  His brow furrowing, his gaze went to the ground, then slowly rose to her face. “I…I have come to care for you, Miss Thorncroft.”

  “Care for me,” she echoed when it became clear that was all he was going to say. “You care for me.”

  “Very much,” he said, frowning, as if her reaction–or notable lack thereof–was not what he’d been anticipating.

  “Oh,” she said, her voice rising an octave. “You care for me very much. I see.”

  “Isn’t that…isn’t that what you wanted to hear?”

  “Is that the only reason you said it, then? Because you thought I wanted to hear it?”

  With the slowly dawning trepidation of someone who realized they’d just stepped into quicksand and were sinking rapidly, Weston both literally and figuratively began to retreat. “I…I am afraid I don’t understand, Miss Thorncroft. I was under the impression that you would be pleased if I admitted how I felt.”

  “I am pleased,” she said shrilly. “Do I not look pleased?”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  “Maybe that’s because I’ve served you my heart on a sterling silver platter, and you’ve just given it back to me on a tin plate.” Anger and disappointment filled Evie in equal measure as she surged to her feet. “I am happy that you care for me, my lord. Truly. I also care for things. Like this–like this fountain.” She gestured blindly at the marble statue in the middle of the glade. “Or this dress. Or these shoes, which are splattered in mud and most likely ruined.”

  Weston’s frown transformed into a scowl. “You’re acting irrationally.”

  “Maybe I am!” she exclaimed, flinging her arms wide. “But that’s what love does to people. Or so the poets would have us believe. It makes them act irrationally. Fearlessly. Courageously. It took great courage for me to admit that I love you. I’ve never said that to a man before. I’d never planned to say it. Or maybe I did, but I wouldn’t have meant it. Not really. Because I’ve never felt this…this deeply for anyone as I do for you. And to hear that you care for me…caring is all well and good. It certainly has its place. But it isn’t love. So I’ll ask, because you haven’t offered to say it.” She took a deep breath. A bracing breath. A potentially life-changing breath, depending on what awaited her on its release. “Do you love me, Weston?”

  In a carefully neutral tone devoid of emotion that made her want to curl her hands into fists and pummel his chest, he began, “I care for you, Miss Thorncroft. Very much, as I said. One day, perhaps, that may turn into something that closely resembles–”

  “Oh!” she cried, stomping her foot. “You’re impossible.”

  Unable to trust herself not to say something she’d come to regret in the morning once cooler heads had prevailed, she shoved past him and stormed towards the manor in a fit of indignation…and bitter, heartbroken dismay.

  He could, Weston acknowledged in hindsight, have handled that better. Which was why he took it upon himself to seek out Evie before she sought her bed.

  The hour was rapidly approaching midnight, but the game in the garden had filled everyone with renewed energy, and with the exception of Lady Danbury and a few other elderly guests, the main receiving parlor was a hive of activity as wine and gossip flowed freely.

  Taking a glass of port from the tray of a passing servant, Weston indulged in a leisurely sip while he perused the room, staying to the back so as not to invite conversation. Unfortunately, despite his efforts at remaining inconspicuous, he was almost immediately singled out by none other than Lady Martha Smethwick.

  “My lord,” she said by way of greeting as she sidled up beside him and dipped into a graceful curtsy. “How did you find the gardens?”

  Reluctantly placing his search for Evie on hold, Weston forced a tight-lipped smile. “Green, Lady Martha. Quite green.”

  “Oh, Lord Hawkridge,” she giggled, her gloved fingers glancing off the side of his arm. “You are such the comedian. Who were you partnered with?”

  “Miss Thorncroft,” he said absently. “Lady Martha, if you will excuse me–”

  “The American? I’ve not yet had the opportunity to speak with her, but she seems lovely. How do you find the weather, my lord, now that the rain has ceased?” Martha smiled, revealing even white teeth and the fluttering hint of a dimple. Her blonde hair was swept back from her delicate features in an intricate twist of curls, and her curves, slight as they may have been, were on full display in a yellow gown with a low bust and cinched waist. She was a beautiful woman; her reputation as one of the ton’s premiere jewels well deserved. A
nd she would make a perfect countess.

  For someone else.

  Because he no longer wanted perfection and all of the varied shades of blandness that accompanied it. He wanted…he wanted tension, and discord, and someone who would disagree with him. Zealously. And then make love to him with just as much passion.

  He didn’t want to stand in a parlor drinking port and discussing the bloody weather.

  He wanted to be knee-deep in a pond with his boots stuck in the muck while the woman he loved challenged him from the shoreline. He wanted to ravish her in the stables, and the kitchen, and every other inappropriate place that would cause a woman of Martha’s gentle breeding to faint at the mere thought of intimate relations being performed outside of the marital bed. He wanted to rescue orphaned animals, and go for long walks, and trade sarcastic quips over dinner.

  And while he hadn’t been able to give Evie the words he’d known that she wanted, that she needed, he felt them. Deep down inside, where it mattered most, he did love her. With everything he had. With everything he was. With everything he wanted to be.

  “Excuse me, my lady,” he said abruptly. “But there is someone I must speak with.”

  “Can it not wait?” Martha asked. “We’ve hardly had a moment to exchange more than a few words, my lord. When I received your invitation to attend the house party, I assumed…” She trailed delicately away. “But perhaps I was mistaken.”

  Damnit.

  While he’d done little to encourage Martha’s attention this past Season, he hadn’t actively discouraged it. Which meant that he couldn’t merely push her aside without giving her the chance to find a proper replacement, or else the ton in all of its sharp-tongued cruelty would run wild with stories of how the Earl of Hawkridge had thrown over one of their own for an American.

  The gossip would be meaningless to him. But he wouldn’t want it to affect Martha, or her future prospects. She’d done nothing wrong, and he’d not let her shoulder the blame for his own indecisiveness.

  “Would you like to take tea with me tomorrow in the music room before breakfast?” he asked. “There is something that we should probably discuss.”

  Martha’s eyes lit. “Yes, of course. I would like that very much.”

  “In the meantime…have you met Mr. Greer?” Snagging Henry’s arm as the poor unsuspecting fellow walked past on his way to the sideboard, Weston all but flung him into Martha’s path. “Lady Martha Smethwick, might I introduce you to Mr. Henry Greer. Mr. Greer is the eldest son of Lord Crawford and a member on the board of Midland Railway Company. His assets are quite numerous and he is one of the smartest people I know. Isn’t that right, Mr. Greer?”

  “Ah…” Visibly caught off guard by the unexpected praise, Henry tugged at his collar where a dull flush had begun creeping up his neck. A personable gentleman with a slight bookish quality about him, he’d make as fine a husband as any for a lady of Martha’s standing. Whereas it once would have been unthinkable for the daughter of a viscount to marry down in rank, such a match was now quite common courtesy of a surge in wealth amidst the working class.

  The nobility was a dying breed. And those who insisted on clinging to the old ways of tenant farming and inheritance to fund their lavish spending habits were falling ill the quickest.

  In three or four decades, mayhap even fewer, Weston doubted that there’d be much of an aristocracy left in England. Or the world over, for that matter. A good thing, in his opinion, as he’d never defined himself by his title…only the obligations that tied him to it.

  “I don’t know if I would describe my holdings as numerous–” Henry began.

  “Nonsense,” Weston said firmly. “What don’t you take Lady Martha to get some refreshments, and you can tell her all about them.”

  Watching with some amusement as they walked away, their heads bowed together and Martha’s hand lightly resting in the crook of Henry’s elbow, he drained his port and set the empty glass aside on a table. But he’d no sooner caught a glimpse of Evie’s dark hair beside the piano than Brynne approached him wearing a slightly quizzical smile.

  “What have you done?” she asked, nodding towards the sideboard.

  He followed her gaze to where Martha and Henry were leaning over a platter of coconut macaroons drizzled in chocolate and shrugged. “Matchmaking isn’t as hard as people would lead you to believe.”

  “No,” his twin agreed, “it isn’t. All you really need is a common interest and a flicker of attraction. Sometimes not even that much. But why are you matchmaking? More importantly, why are you matchmaking for Lady Martha? Did she decline your proposal?”

  He needed something stronger than port, Weston decided, if they were going to have this discussion here and now. “Come to my study,” he said. “I’ll explain everything there.”

  “You mean abandon my duties as hostess and leave our guests to socialize by themselves?” Brynne asked with a feigned gasp of horror. Her eyes twinkled. “Give me five minutes and I shall be right behind you.”

  As he left the parlor, Weston felt…free. As if a great burden had been lifted off him. One that he had carried for such a long time that it had become a part of him, like an arm or a leg. Had he done nothing to escape its weight, it would have continued to sit there. To grow heavier, and heavier, until one day the boy he used to be, the boy who had yearned for love above all else, would have been utterly eclipsed by the man who refused to believe in it.

  Pouring himself a glass of his second-best scotch, he stood by the window as he waited for Brynne to join him. He knew that she’d long been hoping that he would listen to his heart instead of his head. Hoping that he would choose Evie instead of Martha. Hoping that he would be the first male in his family to marry for happily-ever-after instead of calculated convenience.

  And his sister was right, bugger it.

  She’d been right all along.

  Not that he was stupid enough to tell her that.

  “No need to knock, Brynne. Come right in,” he said brusquely when a quiet fist tapped on the door. Except it wasn’t his twin who entered the study, but rather his butler.

  “My lord,” Mr. Stevens said formally.

  Weston lowered his scotch. “Is something amiss?”

  “It is your father, my lord.”

  He stared at the butler in stunned silence for the span of three seconds, and then recovered enough to ask several question in rapid succession. “Has there been an accident? Is my father ill? Does he require the services of a doctor? Has he sent for me?”

  “No, my lord. As far as I am aware, the marquess is in excellent health.”

  “Then by God, what is it?” Weston demanded.

  “Your father…your father is here.”

  “Here?” he said blankly.

  “At Hawkridge Manor, my lord. Your father is here at Hawkridge Manor.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  His father was here.

  Of anywhere Weston would have preferred the Marquess of Dorchester to be–the ground being one of them–this was the worst place, and the worst time, his father possibly could have chosen to finally make an appearance.

  Like a shark smelling blood in the water, had he known, somehow, that his only son and heir was on the brink of happiness? Or was he here for some other purpose?

  There was only one way to find out.

  “Send him in, Mr. Stevens,” Weston said grimly, and then he sat behind his desk to wait.

  When Jason Weston, Marquess of Dorchester, entered the study, the first thing Weston noted about his father was how old he appeared.

  Maybe it was due to the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in person for over a year. Or maybe it was simply because children always tended to view their parents through a lens that was unchanged by days, or months, or even years. Whatever the reason, it was clear that the marquess had aged considerably since they’d last occupied the same room.

  Jason’s hair, once as black and thick as his son’s, was thinning and gray.
His face had more creases. The back of his hands, when he removed his leather gloves, had more veins running through them. His mouth was thinner. Flatter. His forehead more pronounced. But his eyes…cold, piercing, and gray…his eyes were exactly the same.

  “Son,” he said bluntly as he crossed the study and helped himself to a generous pour of scotch. “You appear healthy enough. A bit pale, perhaps. You should get outside more.”

  Five seconds in, and Weston’s teeth were already on edge, his hackles raised, his hands knotted underneath his desk.

  “Father,” he replied just as curtly. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is the annual house party, is it not?” Jason settled himself in an oversized chair and crossed his legs at the knee. “I presumed my attendance was expected.”

  “Expected, yes. Counted on, no.” Weston forced himself to take a deep, even breath. Their last discussion had ended in an argument. Which wasn’t a surprise, in and of itself. But it was the topic of that argument, namely, his father’s American mistress, Anne Thorncroft, which had him proceeding with extreme caution. “You must have heard by now that your daughter and her sister have come to England.”

  “Joanna and Evelyn Thorncroft.” The marquess glanced into his scotch before he raised the glass to his mouth and took a liberal swallow. “Yes, I am aware. It has also come to my attention that Jacob Thorncroft was killed during the War Between the States, leaving his three daughters and mother on the brink of destitution. I’ve already made arrangements for my solicitor to reach out to Joanna and settle a modest sum of ten thousand pounds in her name, to be used at her discretion.”

  A fortune, by anyone’s standards.

  And no less than what Joanna deserved.

  Just a few weeks ago, Weston wouldn’t have thought so. He’d have been angry–furious, even–that his father was bestowing a sizable inheritance upon an illegitimate daughter he’d never recognized, nor even met. But time (and Evie) had changed his perspective. And in his newly unfrozen heart, he wanted Joanna to get every penny. Even though…