Much later, Evie would look back on her actions and feel nothing short of humiliating, cheek-burning embarrassment. But in that moment, with her mind still pleasantly numb and her emotions running high, all she saw was a lamb calling out for its mother. As she knew the sting of losing a parent all too well, how could shenothelp?
Never mind that she didn’t evenlikeanimals.
Especially of the smelly farm variety.
But while piles of dung would have been of utmost concern to sober Evie, intoxicated Evie barely noticed as she bunched up her skirts, climbed through the fence, and dashed off up the hill.
With alarmed bleats, woolly white sheep scattered in every direction. But the lost lamb didn’t move. And it wasn’t until she’d reached the frantically bleating baby and caught a glimpse of what was laying at the bottom on the other side of the hill that she understood why.
“Close your eyes,” Weston ordered, materializing as if out of nowhere to grasp her waist and spin her away from the gruesome sight. He wrapped his arms around her trembling frame, holding her in a protective embrace against his chest as her stomach rolled in protest at what she’d seen.
“That poor thing,” she cried. “It was…it was…”
“Dead,” he said flatly. “Killed early this morning, if I had to guess.”
“What could do such a thing? Wolves?”
“There haven’t been wolves in England for hundreds of years. The sheep was butchered by poachers, most likely, as there’s no natural predator large enough to take down a full grown ewe. At least nothing that would leave behind its lamb.”
“The lamb!” Slipping out of Weston’s hold, Evie crouched beside the distraught baby and gently ran her hand across its back. It couldn’t have been older than a few days, a week at the most. She’d never seen one this size before. It had large, liquid brown eyes, velvety ears that stuck straight out the side, and long, spindly legs that were knobby at the knees. The lamb was as adorable as it was pitiful, and Evie could not conceive abandoning it where it was to either slowly starve to death or be picked off by some sort of creature. She gazed beseechingly up at Weston. “We have to bring it with us.”
“Bring it…no,” said the earl with a curt shake of his head. “Absolutely not.”
“Why?” she demanded. “It’s all alone. It needs us.”
“There’s easily five dozen sheep standing right over there. They can take care of it.”
“Well they’re not doing a very good job, are they?” Resolute in her decision, Evie carefully placed one hand on the lamb’s chest, another under its belly, and scooped it up. It weighed less than a bag of feathers, and was in such shock that it didn’t even raise a fuss, but instead pushed its head in the crook of Evie’s elbow. Within moments, its rapid breathing had steadied, and the lamb fell fast asleep.
“This is stealing, you know,” Weston commented as they made way out of the field and onto the road. But he reached for the lamb to lift it over the fence without Evie having to ask, and as she climbed between the wooden boards, she would have sworn his mouth curved into a shape that suspiciously resembled a smile.
Giving her skirts a goodthwackwith the palm of her hand to clear them of dust, she straightened her hat as best she could and tucked a limp strand of hair behind her ear. She must have looked like a positive fright but, for once, Evie didn’t care about that. Her first concern was the slight, vulnerable animal being so tenderly held in the arms of the gruff, surly Earl of Hawkridge. Except no one, not even Weston, could look grufforsurly when they were cradling a lamb.
“We’ll find the farmer and pay him fairly for it,” she said dismissively. “No harm done.”
“We’re notbuyinganything,” Weston said. “We’re returning it at the first opportunity. I already have one uninvited houseguest to deal with. I’m not adding another.”
“Shhh,” Evie said, frowning. “She’ll hear you.”
“She?”
“Yes. Doesn’t she strike you as a girl?” It was likely the lingering effects of the brandy, but Evie felt a distinctive maternal tug as she reached out and stroked the top of the slumbering lamb’s head. Strange, as she’d never been particularly aware of any mothering instinct before.
As a child, she hadn’t played with dolls as much as she’d used their hair to practice braiding. When she grew older and her friends began to discuss how many children they were going to have, she’d been more concerned with keeping pace with the latest fashion trends coming in from Paris via theBoston Women’s Quarterlywhich was atleastfour weeks behind than using the petals of a daisy to dictate whether she was going to have two boys or three girls.
All that to say, Evie knew she’d have to have children someday if she wanted to marry well, as the production of an heir was all but written into the contract. But she’d never given much consideration into what kind of mother she wanted to be.
Or what kind of father she wanted for her children.
Wealth and prestige weremuchmore important factors in determining a suitable husband. At least, they had been until Weston absently rubbed the lamb’s ear and Evie’s heart did an oddpitter-patinside of her chest.
“We should call her Posy,” she whispered, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes.
“Posy the lamb,” he snorted quietly. “How original.”
“What would you name her, then?”
“Nothing. I am calling it nothing, because we’re giving it back.”
