“How muchfurther?” Evie groaned, swatting at a tendril of hair that had come loose from her chignon and was tickling the side of her neck where a layer of perspiration caused her ivory skin to gleam in the dappled light.
Inside the carriage, she’d been the epitome of ladylike perfection. Every ebony tendril had been artfully arranged, her habit had carried nary a wrinkle, and her tiny bonnet had been tidily pinned to the middle of her head.
But now, after twenty minutes of walking in the unseasonably warm autumn heat, her skirts had wilted, her hat was dangling low over her left brow, and her color was high; her cheeks as rosy as two ripe apples.
Two ripe apples that Weston suddenly and inexplicably wanted to bite into.
Would she taste sweet or tart? A combination, if he had to guess. Like a chameleon, Evelyn Thorncroft had the unique ability to change her demeanor at will. But he found that of all the Evie’s he had encountered thus far (the coquettish Evie at the ball, the smirking Evie outside his townhouse, the suspiciously agreeable Evie in his carriage), he preferred this version of her the best.
This rumpled, hot, sticky version that had peeled away her carefully constructed polished veneer to reveal a glimpse at the raw, authentic woman beneath. The woman, he suspected, not many people ever had the chance to see.
“We’ve only gone a mile,” he said, and found himself struggling not to chuckle when Evie’s plump lips parted in dismay. As someone not given to great bursts of humor, it was an uncharacteristic reaction. One that caught him off guard, and caused him to frown.
Evelyn Thorncroft was hisenemy. An opportunistic, scheming shrew who had taken advantage of his sister’s cordial nature and all but forced herself upon him for the next four weeks.Ifshe lasted that long. Weston hadn’t told Brynne, but he had every intention of making Evie’s stay at Hawkridge Manor so miserable that she was begging to leave within a fortnight, if not sooner.
The American was a problem he didn’t want. Especially now that she was invoking unwanted…feelingsinside of him. And when Weston found himself faced with a problem, there was only one thing to do.
Eradicate it.
“Amile?” she exclaimed, gazing at him disbelief. “It feels as if we’ve walked for ages!”
“We have at least another two to go.” Not the list bit sympathetic to her discomfort (hehadoffered to let her stay in the carriage), Weston removed a silver plated flask from the inside pocket of his coat and took a swig. “Maybe three.”
“Three more miles?” At that, Evie’s legs crumpled beneath her and she sank to the ground in a plume of tan skirts, tangled hair, and despair. “Can’t we wait here for another carriage to come along?”
“We could,” he acknowledged. “But if one did not, we’d soon find ourselves stranded out in the elements after sunset.”
“What about Lady Brynne?” Evie said hopefully. “Surely she’ll be along.”
“My sister suffers from traveling sickness, and takes a less direct route where the roads are wider and more smoothly grated.”
“Well why didn’t we gothatway?”
He smiled thinly. “Because I desired to divest myself of your company as quickly as possible. If you’re done resting, we need to continue on.”
“Help me up,” she said, extending her arm.
Of its own accord, Weston’s gaze dropped to her hand. Without his noticing, she’d removed her gloves while they were walking. Her fingers were long and elegant, her nails filed to a rounded edge. She may not have borne the title of a lady, but she had the soft, lily-white hands of one. Or so he thought before she turned her wrist with an impatience flick and he saw the rough calluses on her palm.
As he couldn’t fathom Evie doing any sort of manual labor, he wondered what had put them there. By all impressions, she was a pampered Boston socialite without a care in the world. But those blisters belonged to someone who had endured hardship. Someone who had used their hands in such a repetitive manner that their skin had literally died and then hardened.
They didn’t hurt, calluses.
From years of riding, Weston’s hands were riddled with them.
But then, he wasn’t a woman.
And maybe…maybe Evie wasn’t the woman he’d assumed she was. Namely, a spoiled brat who’d had her shiny toy taken away and, on a frivolous whim, had sailed across the ocean to get it back. Out of boredom, and spite, and a general lack of respect for the fact that the ring she’d asked him to return belonged tohismother, not hers.
But what if she wasn’t here because she wanted to be?
What if she was here because sheneededto be?
What if the ring wasn’t a merely a token, but a means for survival? After all, the only reason his investigators had found it in the first place (aside from sheer luck) was because Evie and her sisters had brought it to a jeweler in an attempt to have it appraised. Which they wouldn’t have done unless they had plans to sell it. But why part with the ringnowafter having it in their possession all these years?
It didn’t make any sense.
Unless the Thorncrofts found themselves in dire straits…and desperate for money.
