But Weston wasn’t a man who ran on fire. He preferred the cold, emotionless sheen of ice. And he’d rather a thousand winters than one hot, sticky summer night filled with the scent of wisteria and the flickering glow of fireflies and Evie, dressed only in moonlight and sin.
Bloody hell.
He ran a hand down his face, palm catching on the rough stubble that clung to his chin and jaw. He needed a shave and a shower bath. A fresh set of clothes. A proper cravat. Maybe then he’d feel more like himself and less like this…this love-struck dandy who couldn’t get out of his own way.
If he wasn’t furious with Evie, he wanted to kiss her. And when he didn’t want to kiss her…all right, healwayswanted to kiss her. Which was the damned problem, wasn’t it? This…thisfeverhe’d contracted. Where the only cure was Evie’s lips.
When he’d seen her this morning, her eyes heavy with sleep and her mouth swollen from his, it had taken every ounce of self-restraint he possessed not to take her in his arms and complete what they’d started the night before.
After he’d left her alone in the room–after he’dhadto leave, or else Evie would not have awoken as an innocent–he had walked off his throbbing arousal before drowning himself in cheap ale. He’d the pounding head to pay for it today, but he’d prefer that over the alternative…and while a hard chair had made a poor bedfellow, at least he still had his pride.
What was left of it, anyway.
Bollocks, but the woman cut him to the quick. A minute in her company and his nerves were raw and exposed, his heart a skip away from doing something he’d sworn it wouldneverdo. Which was why he’d spoken so sharply to Evie before he’d stormed out to soak in the rain…and his own guilt for being harsh with her.
He would apologize for that, Weston decided. They may not have been friends, but if they were to survive the house party without tearing at each other’s throats for the duration, he needed to restore some semblance of civility to their relationship.
Not passion or anger, but cordial apathy. The sort he held for Lady Martha.
Yes.
That was it.
As the answer presented itself, Weston straightened.
He needed to make himself feel for Evie what he felt for his almost-fiancée.
God knew he had never pictured Martha bathed in moonlight. He’d never even kissed her on the mouth, let alone dropped to his knees and pleasured her with his tongue until she wrapped her pillowy thighs around his head and cried out in ecstasy…thrice.
No, he’d never done anything like that with Martha. Truth be told, he probably never would. Because she was a proper lady, and aside from the fact that she’d most likely swoon at the mere mention of such a wickedly sensual act, that was what mistresses were for.
A wife for a smoothly run household and a male heir.
A mistress for entertainment and sexual gratification.
That was the way the Weston men had conducted their marriages for generations. Who was he to upend tradition? He’d already set himself apart by choosing to give a damn about his sister, and had no interest in pursuing further ostracization by committing the unpardonable sin of being in love with his own wife.
Weston men didn’t fall in love. Or if they did, it ended badly. He had only to look to his father for confirmation.
The Marquess of Dorchester had made a splendid match in Weston’s mother, Lady Felicia, whom Weston knew only through portraits, the most coveted of which was a miniature by Brynne’s own hand. By all accounts, the late Marchioness of Dorchester had been a lovely woman. Gently bred, perfectly mannered, and well versed in all feminine pursuits, Felicia was the obvious choice for a gentleman of the marquess’ ranking and wealth.
But then she’d died, and Jason Weston had gone and lost his heart to his mistress, an American debutante who never had any intention of remaining in London once the Season was over. With a baby growing in her belly, she’d returned to Boston to marry another man and by all reports, the Marquess of Dorchester had never been the same since.
While most young boys grew up idolizing their fathers, Weston had come to use his as an example of whatnotto become. He’d no interest in having his heart broken and living the rest of his life as a shadow of the man he had once been. Bully on that. Weston was going to do what his fathershouldhave done.
Marry a lady, take on an experienced mistress, and keep his damned heart to himself.
Such an endeavor left no room for the likes of Evelyn Thorncroft, which was just fine with him. As soon as they reached Hawkridge Manor, he was going to distance himself as far from the tempestuous beauty as the seventy-two room estate permitted. When their paths did intersect, he’d conduct himself with the utmost chivalry. From this point forward, for all intents and purposes, Evie was just another guest. There’d be no more arguing. No more taunting. No more admiring her bottom when she wasn’t looking.
And, most importantly, there would be absolutelynomore kissing.
On the mouth…or otherwise.
Chapter Eight
The rest ofthe journey to Hawkridge Manor passed without incident. Riding in the growler, while a far cry from the resplendent luxury of the town coach, was much more preferable than walking. Especially given the distance they’d yet to go. At least nine miles, Weston had told Evie in a clipped tone when she’d inquired. An arduous task on foot, to be certain, but much easier to accomplish when being pulled along behind a horse.
Inside the growler that smelled heavily of floral perfume with a hint of cigar smoke, Evie and Weston sat facing the same direction. Posy dozed on the floor between them, snuggled into the bed Evie had constructed using the remnants of her traveling habit.
