“It’s–it’s yourface,” she gasped before she doubled over with a peal of laughter, wrapping her arms around her belly as her entire body shook with mirth.
Weston stopped short. “Pray tell, what about my face is so humorous?”
Between chortles, Evie managed to say, “It is veryveryserious.”
A long pause, and then…
“Miss Thorncroft, you’re foxed.”
“Where’s the fox?” Popping upright, she slanted a hand across her brow and peered off across the field. “I’ve only seen sheep.”
“My point exactly.” Weston removed his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and regarded her with a lifted brow. “What am I supposed to do with you, Miss Thorncroft?”
“I’m rather thirsty,” she said with a hopeful glance at the pocket that held his flask.
Although his mouth remained stern, his gaze held a faint, unmistakable glint of amusement. “I should think not, Miss Thorncroft. I believe you’d had more than enough cognac.”
“I thought you said it was brandy.”
“Cognac is a type of brandy. Like a thoroughbred is a type of horse,” he explained when her temple creased in confusion.
“Oh. I understand.” She didn’t really, as she knew as much about horses as she did different types of liquor, but nodding along seemed as if it were the most prudent thing to do. “I did not mean to insult your appearance, you know. No offense was intended.”
“No offense was taken.”
“Good. Because you’re really very handsome.”
“Thank you, Miss Thorn–”
“Almost as handsome as Evan Bridgeton,” she went on.
Weston’s eyes narrowed. “Who the devil is Evan Bridgeton?”
“The man I was going to marry. Oh, look! That sheep has a lamb.”
“You wereengaged?”
“No, I…why Lord Hawkridge,” she cooed, lashes fluttering. “Are you envious of Mr. Bridgeton?”
Evie’s head may have been fuzzy, but she wasn’t so inebriated that she didn’t recognize a flash of jealousy when she saw it. And Weston, with his taut jaw and drawn fists, was mostdefinitelyjealous.
How…interesting.
“You needn’t be, you know. Envious, that is,” she said when his only reply was a low, rumbling growl. “It’s true, Mr. Bridgeton was renowned throughout our village for his striking blond hair, piercing green eyes, and chiseled countenance, but it is not as if he was a Greek god or anything. However, come to think of it, Ididhear him compared to Adonis on occasion. And yes, hewasthe son of a senator, which, in America, might as well have made him a marquess.” She tapped her chin. “A marquess is higher in ranking than an earl, is it not?”
Weston’s growl intensified.
“Do you have something in your throat?” she asked innocently. “Perhaps a nip of brandy might help.”
“Miss Thorncroft,” he bit out through gritted teeth, “has anyone ever told you howincrediblyvexing you are?”
“Not Mr. Bridgeton. He thought I was…what were the words he used…” She pursed her lips. “That’s right! Now I remember. ‘Delightfully charming, astonishingly beautiful, and virtuous beyond reproach.’”
“A regular Alfred Tennyson, your Mr. Bridgeton,” Weston sneered. “If he was so bloody perfect, why didn’t you marry him?”
“Because I–oh, Lord Hawkridge, look!” On a gasp, Evie drew attention to a small, bleating lamb that had just come into view over the top of the hillside. “It’s in trouble. We have to help it.”
“It’s a sheep in a field filled with sheep,” he said pointedly. “I am fairly confident it does not require the assistance of two people, one of whom is–Miss Thorncroft, where thehelldo you think you’re going?”
