Given that he had deliberately stated he wanted to see nothing over the next few weeks that could possibly be perceived as romantic, Weston could only assume the soaps were an oversight. One that needed immediate correction.
For an instant, during his long, solitary ride back to the manor, he had let his mind wander…and it wasn’t soon before his head was filled with images of Evie, dressed only in a sliver of red satin.
The things he’d done to her on that ride…it was wicked incarnate. And the last thing he needed was anything that might intentionally provoke his ardor…or hers. For while he may have initiated theirencounters, Evie certainly hadn’t shied away from them.
She was as passionate a female as any he’d ever kissed, and while she lacked the finesse of a mistress skilled in the art of seductive practices, she more than made up for her inexperience with raw, unbridled enthusiasm.
Kissing Evie…being kissedbyEvie…was like touching the sun. It was bright and beautiful. But getting that close to something so hot was not without consequence and, if given the choice, Weston would always prefer the familiar, emotionless touch of cold against his flesh instead of heat.
Fire was unpredictable.
Uncontrollable.
Untenable.
And he didn’t need damnedsoap heartsfloating around to remind him how much he had loved the lick of the flame.
“Where are they?” he demanded.
“In the receiving baskets in our rooms. Along with a miniature flask of champagne–quite clever, that–and chocolate in the shape of–”
“Let me guess,” Weston bit out. “Hearts.”
Sterling nodded. “It appears to be the running theme. Am I to assume we are preemptively celebrating your engagement to Lady Martha Smethwick?”
Martha. The woman heshouldhave been daydreaming about, if he was to dream of any.
Instead, she was the furthest thing from his mind.
“I wasn’t aware I’d made my plans to propose public,” he said.
“Come now. You should know better than most that there is no such thing as a secret in theton. Which is why I’m here.” Finally settling on a bottle, Sterling twisted off the cork on a circular bottle of scotch and carefully poured the amber liquid into two glasses. Carrying one over to Weston, who accepted it gladly, he kept the other for himself and took a sip. “Excellent vintage. Scottish?”
Weston nodded. “You’ve a good palate. That was a gift. One of the last batches of whisky ever made at Glenavon Distillery.”
Sterling pursed his lips and whistled. “I’ve been after one of these for years. Can’t find them anywhere. And that’s saying something, given my connections. Who gave it to you?”
“Lord Lachlan Campbell.”
“How do I find him?”
“Devil if I know,” Weston shrugged. “Our fathers attended Eton together. Lachlan was as close a friend as any I had growing up, and then last year he disappeared. He was here, for the house party, and then he left early without a word. Haven’t heard from him since.”
“Tall fellow?” asked Sterling, holding a hand several inches above his not-so-inconsiderable height of six feet. “Auburn hair? Bellowing laugh?”
“That’s him.”
“Hmm. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down an enormous red-haired Scot. Speaking of disappearances…” Topping off his glass, Sterling sat across from Weston and tilted his head to study his whisky. “You’ve heard the news by now, I assume.”
“That you killed your mistress in cold blood, chopped up her body, and tossed it in the Thames to be devoured by sharks?” Weston lifted a brow. “I heard something to that effect, yes.”
“Bloodysharks?” Sterling scowled. “Next it’ll be Nile crocodiles.”
“I thought it was a little farfetched myself.”
“Then you don’t think I did it.”
Not bothering to deign such an absurd statement with a response, Weston just gave a snort and sipped his whisky. “That’s why you’re here, then. To avoid the gossip running rampant through London.”
