When his smile abruptly faded and his gaze shuttered, Evie could have kicked herself. Weston hadn’t earned himself any favors by comparing her to an onion of all things, but bringing another woman into the conversation was even worse.Especiallywhen that woman was someone Weston had an interest in marrying.
Evie did not know very much about Martha Smethwick. No more than what Brynne had told her, which was that the lady was pretty, and polite, and dreadfully boring.
“She’ll be at the house party with her mother in tow,” Brynne had shared with all the enthusiasm of someone who had just sucked on a lemon. “While my brother hasn’t formally declared his intentions, it is only a matter of time. He is not getting any younger, and Lady Martha is impeccably bred. She will make a splendid countess, albeit a dull sister-in-law.”
“You make it sound as if she’s a prized thoroughbred,” Evie had said, to which Brynne sighed.
“Isn’t that exactly what we are?”
Over the past two days, Evie hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on the impeccably bred Lady Martha Smethwick. She really didn’t know why she’d brought her up now, except that there was a part of her that had wanted to see Weston’s reaction to the mention of his not-yet-formally-declared fiancée. Especially since they would soon all be at Hawkridge Manor together. A merry family comprised of a surly earl with the smile of an angel, a perfect lady with the bloodlines of a horse, and the most versatile of all root vegetables.
How splendid.
“Lady Martha’s hair is blonde, not orange, and I don’t know what color her eyes are.” Weston’s fingers drummed along the windowsill in an impatientrat-a-tat-tat. “Miss Thorncroft, I want to–”
“You don’t know what color her eyes are?” Evie interrupted. “I was under the impression you and Lady Martha were going to…that is, you plan to propose.”
“I do,” he said and to her credit, Evie did not flinch. “But I fail to see what a marriage proposal has anything to do with eye color. Miss Thorncroft, before we reach Hawkridge Manor I’d like to take the opportunity to establish some–”
“What color are mine?” she asked, pinching her eyelids together.
“What are you talking about?” he said irritably.
“Myeyes.” Were they open, Evie would have rolled them. “What color are my eyes?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Just answer the question. Unless you can’t,” she challenged. “In which case, I shall graciously permit you to admit defeat.”
“Blue,” he snapped. “Your eyes are blue.”
“There. Was that so–”
“Except when you are angry, and then they’re the color of velvet midnight. Or when you’re happy, and looking at you is like gazing at a cloudless sky on the first day of spring when the air smells like honeysuckle and the soil is ripe with possibility.”
Evie did not know what to say.
For the first time in her life, she found herself rendered completely and utterly speechless.
It was a strange feeling. Almost as strange as the sensation of tumbling backwards even though her feet were planted firmly on the floor of the carriage. But maybe that was what falling in love was meant to be like. Not a falling in the literal sense, as that would be far too messy. But rather an abrupt loss of all common sense that left the mind inwardly flailing for balance. For surely there was nothing logical about being in love with Weston. There was nothing logical about love, period. But it was especially nonsensical when it involved a man whose concept of adulation revolved around ascallion.
And yet…
“We’re here,” he said brusquely, and Evie’s eyes flew open.
The growler was passing beneath an arched section of the stone wall that was just barely high enough to accommodate its sloped roof, leading her to conclude they were accessing the estate via a side entrance. She craned her neck, seeking an unfettered view of the main house through the bushes and the brambles that had become as much a part of the wall as the stone itself.
They crested a short knoll and then there it was, Hawkridge Manor. Her initial impression was that it was smaller than she’d anticipated, but then the carriage continued on past the front and she saw, with wide eyes, that the gray sandstone extended far beyond the initial footprint to include a rambling addition, a solarium made almost entirely of glass, and a multi-tiered terrace with its own spiral staircase spinning up out of an artfully designed garden of roses.
The roof was slate with peaked dormers and matching brick chimneys on either side. Ivy crawled along the walls, making it difficult to discern where the stately house ended and the gardens began. Wide marble pathways, meticulously groomed and gleaming white in the afternoon sun, cut through all the greenery like pearl ribbons stitched to the hemline of an emerald gown.
There were several fountains, the biggest of which sat in the middle of the circular drive and sprayed water out of the pursed lips of a playful cherub, nude save for the granite cloth draped around its round hips.
For Evie, who was accustomed to sturdy colonial architecture, the romanticism of Hawkridge Manor was marvelously endearing. She couldn’t wait to see what the interior held. Specifically the ballroom, and the parlor, and her bedchamber. Oh, to sleep in a real bed again! With proper pillows stuffed with goose down and a mattress filled with wool and horsehair. It was going to bewonderful. And if not for the house party, she might have been tempted to disappear into her room for at least a week, rather like a bear seeking a cozy den for its hibernation.
But therewasthe house party to contend with. She could see the tents sprawled across the back lawn from here, colorful flags waving in the breeze as a herd of servants moved hastily about setting up chairs and tables and unrolling carpets so that the ladies’ heels wouldn’t sink into the grass.
“How many guests are you expecting?” she asked, slanting a peek at Weston out of the corner of her eye as the growler lurched to a halt underneath the dappled shade of a large elm tree and the driver came round to open her door.
