Especially this near to her birthday.
In seven months.
“Just drink this,” he growled, thrusting his flask at Evie. “The last thing I need is you fainting from dehydration.”
Warily accepting the flask, she raised it to her nose and gave a delicate sniff. Her gaze flew to his. “Is thisbrandy?”
“What else would it be?” he said impatiently.
“It’s eleven in the morning!”
“And?”
“Fine.” Tilting her head back, she took a sip from the flask, gave a cough, and then (to Weston’s amusement and slight alarm) indulged in a deep swig that would have done a sailor proud.
“All right.” He snatched the flask away from her. “That’s enough.”
Eyes watering, Evie gave another cough. “I’ve had wine before, but never brandy. It’s rather strong, isn’t it? Like drinking fire and smoke, all wrapped into one.” She smiled at him. “The aftertaste is quite pleasant.”
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, shaking his head even as the corners of his lips twitched reluctantly. Evie was no bigger than a teacup. When he’d lifted her out of the carriage, his hands had easily spanned her waist. A sip or two of his best cognac, which he had directly imported from Charente, France, and he wouldn’t be surprised to see her toddling on her feet.
But when they set off back on the road, her gait was remarkably steady, her bustle lightly flouncing as her hips swayed rhythmically from side to side.
Not that he was looking at her hips.
Or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter.
Definitely not the rounded curve of her breasts. Or the slender line of her neck. Or the tips of her earlobes peeking out from beneath her heavy curtain of hair.
Who knewearscould be so damned attractive?
Scowling, Weston deliberately lengthened his stride as he banished any and all lascivious thoughts regarding one Miss Evelyn Thorncroft to the back of his mind where, God willing, he’d be able to keep them until she was gone.
A week, he vowed to himself as they trudged past a field spotted with white, fluffy sheep who lifted their heads in collective curiosity, unaccustomed to seeing humans strolling down the carriage path out in the middle of nowhere.
He would allow Brynne a week with Evie, to gossip and play whist and do whatever it was that women did when they were together. Compare recipes, work on their embroidery, conjure Lucifer…who knew, really?
Seven days, and then he’d do what Weston men did best when they were faced with something they had no interest in dealing with. Mistresses, wives, children. The answer was always the same.
Toss money at the problem and hope it disappeared.
Chapter Four
Evie’s head feltpleasantly fuzzy, like it had when she and her sisters were children and they’d linked arms and spun in a circle until one (or all) fell down.
When they hadn’t a care in the world.
When everything was new and innocent.
When they weren’t struggling to keep pace with curmudgeonly earls.
“Would you wait up? You’re going much too fast,” she complained to Weston’s broad shoulders as he marched along ahead her with all the steely determination of a solider heading off to battle.
Without giving any verbal indication that he’d heard her, Weston nevertheless shortened his stride, allowing her to catch up so they could walk abreast of each other instead of her trailing behind like a scolded child.
She slanted him a glance out of the corner of her eye, and couldn’t help but giggle at what she saw.
“If you find something remotely frivolous about this situation, Miss Thorncroft,” he said darkly, “by all means, please enlighten me.”
