“Lady Hilcox is expecting her fourth child, God bless her, and is on bed rest.”
“God bless indeed.” As the mother of eight children, Mrs. Grimsby clucked her tongue in empathy. Then her warm brown eyes crinkled slyly at the corners. “And will we being seeing Lord Campbell?”
The silver tongs fell to the floor with a loud clatteras all of the blood drained from Brynne’s face. For a moment, she couldn’t think. She couldn’t evenbreathe. Grasping the edge of the table, her willowy frame trembled as she struggled to regain control.
Lord Lachlan Campbell was a name she’dneverwanted to hear again.
Not after the way things had ended between them.
Gulping in a mouthful of air, she turned to face the housekeeper.
Weston wasn’t the only twin whose gaze could turn to frost in the blink of an eye. As ice poured into her veins, Brynne fixed the housekeeper with a glare that was cold enough to turn the entire Serpentine River into a glacier. “If Lord Campbell sets foot upon these grounds, I want him shot on sight. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lady. I–I apologize, my lady. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Realizing she’d overstepped boundaries, there was nothing for Mrs. Grimsby to do other than make a hasty retreat.
As the housekeeper scurried away, Brynne felt a twinge of regret for the way she’d spoken to the kindly woman. But not the words she’d used. After what he had done to her, a bullet was exactly what Lachlan Campbell deserved.
Now where thehellwere her brother and Miss Thorncroft?
“What are yougrinning at?” Weston demanded, the heel of his boot kicking up a plume of dust as he stepped down with unnecessary force.
The earl, Evie had come to observe, stomped when he was angry. And stepped as light as a cat when he was furious. An important distinction she’d already tucked away in the back of her mind, along with all of the other habits she’d quietly observed during their time together.
Like that she had never heard him laugh. Not once. And that when he smiled–reallysmiled, which was exceedingly rare–there was the faintest hint of a dimple in his left cheek. And that when he gazed at her as he had in the thicket, all smoldering passion and carnal promises, he had the ability to make the earth tilt beneath her feet.
“You called her Posy,” she said, casting a sideways glance at the lamb who had, once again, fallen asleep in Weston’s arms. Her short legs had begun to falter after less than a mile, and with a suffering sigh–just loud enough to ensure Evie heard it–the earl had picked her up.
Baby sheep, it seemed, were not meant to travel long distances. And grumpy noblemen looked very charming when they carried them.
Stomp. Stomp.
Even if they were doing their best to appear menacing.
“The devil I did,” Weston grumbled, shooting her a glare.
“You said, and I quote, ‘You’re not putting Posy in a pot’.”
“That doesn’t sound like me.”
Stomp. Stomp.
“Then who do you propose it was?” Evie asked, rolling her eyes at him. Somewhere between drinking Weston’s brandy (or was it cognac? She still wasn’t sure) and being shot at, she’d abandoned any pretense at flattering sweetness.
The earl muttered something undecipherable.
“What was that?” Taking any excuse for a rest, Evie stopped short. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d walked such a distance, if in fact she ever had. While her lithe frame and natural balance lended itself to a certain amount of athletic prowess, she generally limited her physical exertions to meandering strolls through the park and quiet rides on a docile mare. Activities that didnotresult in excessive perspiration. “You’ve taken to mumbling.”
Swinging to face her, Weston set Posy on the ground between them and crossed his arms. He was sweating as well, a line of it trickling down his throat and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. He hadn’t retied his cravat, and had even gone so far as to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves, revealing forearms bronzed from the sun. His hat was gone. Lost, she presumed, during their mad dash away from Gertie. Disheveled, his hair fell away from his forehead in inky waves of obsidian while a few damp strands clung to the sides of his temple.
Ordinarily, Evie preferred her gentlemen to be just that. Gentlemen. Properly dressed in jackets lined with satin and crisp white cravats and boots that gleamed. But there was something undeniably attractive about Weston’s state of undress. Something…virile.
She wet her dry, parched lips. When Weston had leaned towards her in the thicket, she hadn’t just invited his kiss. She’d craved it. There was a part of her that continued to crave it. Which was also out of the ordinary.
Evie had been kissed before. Once by Evan behind a gazebo at a picnic, and a few other times by other suitors who had since gone on to marry women whose families weren’t in financial ruin. She hadn’tdisliked their kisses. But she also hadn’t found much to like about them, either. As a whole, she’d found them to be…bland. Like going to Mr. Green’s frozen ice cart in the village square and asking for peach ice cream, only to discover all he had left was vanilla.
Vanilla wasn’t bad, per se.
But it also wasn’t peach.
