“Yes.” Her hazel eyes flashed. “Yes, that isexactlywhat I’d like to happen…and exactly what this place deserves.”
“I am sorry,” he said gently. “But you know I cannot do that, sweetling.”
Weston was well aware of his sister’s feeling regarding Hawkridge Manor. He knew that while he saw it as his birthright, she looked at the plaster walls and saw a prison. While he and Brynne were not in the habit of keeping secrets from each other, she’d never told him of the years she’d spent confined here while he was away at Eton. He knew her time had been a misery only because of how much she detested returning. But she had never given him any specific details, even when he’d pressed.
“I know,” she muttered, reaching for her brush. After wiping it dry on the cotton apron she wore over her dress, she dabbed the tip of the bristles in a vat of crimson paint and resumed her work. “At least the light is better here than in the city. It’s so much clearer, and the days last longer without all the building and factories to block out the setting sun.”
He nodded in agreement. Brynne may have despised Hawkridge Manor, but he’d invariably found a sense of solace here amidst the wandering streams and thick forests and undulating hills. He could hop on his favorite mount and ride for hours without running out of room, a freedom that did not exist amidst the crowded streets of London.
“What did you mean when you said I was spreading family business?” Brynne asked, her fair brow creasing in concentration as she focused on the middle of the canvas. Weston had no idea what she was painting, and he knew better than to ask. His sister was one of the kindest people he knew, but she’d happily scratch out the eyes of anyone who dared look at her artwork before it was finished.
“My pending engagement to Lady Martha,” he said.
Brynne’s brush hovered in midair. “What about it?”
“You told Miss Thorncroft.”
“I didn’t realize it was a secret.”
“It’s not.”
“Then what is the issue?”
“Theissueis that my private affairs are none of Miss Thorncroft’s concern!” His shout was loud enough to startle a collection of sparrows in a nearby tree. Tiny wings flapping madly, they swooped low over the gazebo before vanishing into the heavy thicket of evergreens.
On a sigh, Brynne began painting again. “I may have mentioned, in passing, that you were considering a proposal. It was not a main topic of conversation, and I certainly was not ‘spreading family business’ when you and Lady Martha are all but public knowledge. Unless something between the two of you has changed, that is. Youarestill planning on getting down on bended knee before the house party concludes, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, ignoring the sharp twinge in his gut.
“That’s a shame. I was hoping your time spent with Miss Thorncroft may have…altered your perspective on what you want out of a marriage. Not to mention given you the opportunity to reflect on our little chat before you left.”
Weston snorted. “The only thing my time spent with Miss Thorncroft has done is convince me that I don’t want to spend any further time with her. The woman is…is…”
“Is…?”
How to summarize Evelyn in a word?
“Exhausting,” he concluded after taking a moment to think about it. “Miss Thorncroft isexhausting.”
Brynne smiled. “Americans do have their own unique source of energy, don’t they? I find it refreshing, myself.”
“I do not,” he said sourly.
“That much is apparent.” Her smile widened. “I am glad to hear that your little venture with Miss Thorncroft went well, and you’ve both made it to Hawkridge Manor no worse for wear. Although I would be remiss if I did not comment on your choice of apparel. That jacket does not suit you at all.”
“Well?Well?” he repeated, incredulous. “It was a bloody disaster from start to finish!”
“Now that you mention it, youdoseem a tad flustered.”
The Earl of Hawkridge?
Flustered?
Preposterous.
“Don’t be absurd,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m just…weary.”
“Weary,” Brynne said skeptically.
