Forhim, that was.
If Weston had been more agreeable, they could have handled things the easy way. Thepoliteway. If there was anything Evie had learned during her time in England, it was that the British were exceedingly polite.
But she was an American.
An American who wasn’t going to be leaving England without that ring on her finger…one way or another.
“My father’s illegitimate offspring means nothing to me,” Weston said coolly. “And you mean less than that, Miss Thorncroft.”
Evie winced. “This is going to be very awkward then, I’m afraid.”
The corners of his mouth tightened. “What is?”
“Why, it’s just that we’re going to be sharing a roof for the next four weeks. I’d hoped we might be able to start off on better footing, but…” she trailed off with a delicate shrug. “I suppose that we will have plenty of time to strike up an amicable relationship over the coming days.”
“What are you talking about?” he scowled.
“She hasn’t told you?” Evie said in feigned dismay. “Oh, dear.”
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Who?”
“Lady Brynne. She’s invited me to Hawkridge Manor. For the house party,” she clarified when Weston remained silent.
At the news, a muscle leapt high in his cheek. His hands curled into fists. For an instant, Evie thought he was actually going to lose his temper. But it seemed his callous reputation was well-earned, because Weston didn’t yell. He didn’t even speak at all. Raking her with a final scornful glance, the type of look generally reserved for a piece of trash after it was scraped off the bottom of a shoe, the earl turned on his heel and strode away.
Goodness, Evie thought, her blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. Thisisgoing to be fun.
“BRYNNE!” Weston’s bellowechoed through the large foyer, reaching all the way through his seven-bedroom brick manor to the rear gardens and sending the servants scurrying out of his way as he marched down the main hallway in search of his quarry.
Normally, he detested raising his voice, having been taught that if a man could not get what he wanted with a civil tone, then he didn’t deserve to have it. But if there was ever a time to shout, surely it was upon learning that his twin sister had invited his sworn enemy to spend a bloodymonthwith them in the countryside.
He hadn’t been able to abide the sight of Evelyn Thorncroft for thirty seconds after he’d learned who she really was! What made Brynne think he could possibly be in the same company as that money-grubbing hoyden for thirty days?
After looking in the music room, the library, and the parlor to no avail, he stepped out onto the rear terrace and stopped short when he saw his sister painting in the shade of an oak tree, her fair brow furrowed in concentration as her brush swept across the canvas in swift, agitated strokes.
“Do you mind?” she said without bothering to lift her head. “You’re blocking my natural light.”
It was fitting, he supposed, that the last time they’d discussed Joanna and Evelyn Thorncroft they were in this very spot. Brynne had been painting then, as well. But then she wasalwayspainting, her quiet nature much more suited to the arts than socializing over a game of whist.
If he recalled correctly, she’d asked him what he planned to do if Joanna requested the ring back. The ring that family tradition dictated belonged tohisfuture bride, not in the hands of one of his father’s by-blows. And he’d replied that he would give it to their dear half-sister…over his cold, dead body.
Weston stood by that proclamation. He’d rather see the damned ring destroyed than return it to the daughter of his father’s mistress. A mistress that Jason Weston had taken before his wife, the Marchioness of Dorchester, was barely in her grave.
She’d died giving birth to Weston and Brynne.
A tragic demise made worse by her husband’s betrayal, or so that was how Weston viewed it. Which was why he wanted nothing to do with JoannaorEvelyn.
Especially Evelyn.
Evelyn Thorncroft, with her guileless blue eyes and perfect porcelain skin and pink, voluptuous mouth, was the last person on earth he wouldeverwant at Hawkridge Manor. Let alone for the annual Weston house party!
The exclusive event, held every year right before the beginning of the London Season, was another tradition. Started by Weston’s grandfather, the Duke of Caldwell, as a means to celebrate his recent engagement, it had been carried on by Weston’s father before it finally passed to Weston himself.
It was an obligation he took seriously, both as an earl and an heir. His grandfather, while alive at the advanced age of seven and eighty, was in no condition to play host to two dozen guests, and his father, quite frankly, couldn’t be bothered.
As soon as Weston came of age, the marquess had tossed the party into his son’s lap with all the carelessness of a horse swatting at a fly before he took off on a six-month holiday to his hunting lodge in Scotland.
He was there now, or so Weston assumed, having not seen hide nor hair of him since the Thorncrofts came to town. Good riddance, as far as he was concerned. Weston and his father had never been particularly close, and after Weston found a letter that had led to his discovery of the secret affair between the Marquess of Dorchester and Anne Thorncroft, an affair that had resulted in achildhis father had never bothered to mention, the distance between them had grown to an immeasurable length.
