Anywhere.
All at once, and then so slowly that she screamed out his name.
He wanted to hear her say it.
Weston.
Weston.
Weston.
His name would spill from her lips as he suckled at her breasts, alternating between the soft ivory globes before he kissed his way down her ribcage to her navel, and then lower still until he used his tongue to part her sweet curls and–
Bloody hell, he cursed inwardly.
So much for that ride.
He dismounted outside the stables. Giving the gelding a hearty slap on its lathered neck–it wasn’t Luther’s fault that his owner was a walking cockstand–Weston discreetly adjusted his breeches and then strolled into the barn.
Like any nobleman worth his salt, he maintained a modest breeding operation that encompassed half a dozen broodmares, all retired racers, and Bold, a three-year-old colt out of Doncaster, winner of the Epsom Derby. He was pleased with both Bold’s superior confirmation and sensible temperament, and planned to stud him out at the beginning of next year.
The faint, but pleasing scent of leather and straw welcomed Weston as he made his way from one stall to the next, greeting each horse standing inside the roomy wooden boxes with more affection than he generally gave most people. But then, horses weren’t selfish. They kept no secrets. And short of death, which came for both man and beast eventually, they would never break your heart.
He’d just exited the last stall on the row when he heard it.
Or rather, when he heardher.
The sound of Evie’s husky laugh was as unmistakable to him as rain on a window. Or the boom of thunder in the midst of a storm. Or the chirp of crickets heralding in that first warm spring evening after months of winter.
Her laughter was instantly identifiable becauseshewas instantly identifiable.
Even without having her in his line of vision.
Then he stepped around the corner and there she was. Glowing like a beacon in a white dress that accentuated every curve and line of her delectable little body. Her hair was pinned back from her face, allowing him an unfettered view of her blue eyes framed with long, sweeping lashes, plump mouth highlighted with some sort of gloss that made the muscles in his abdomen stretch hard as a drum, and that narrow chin that tended to jut whenever she was angry with him.
But she wasn’t angry now.
As she placed her arms over the top of the foaling stall and peered within, her entire countenance radiated pure joy. And Weston experienced an unexpected surge of jealousy becausehewanted to be the one to bring her such happiness. He wanted her to gaze at him with the same delight in her eyes. He wanted to be the reason she smiled.
Which was so utterly absurd, he wondered if he wasn’t suffering some sort of acute swelling in his brain. Especially since there was swelling in other, similarly sensitive areas.
“Miss Thorncroft. Brynne.” His voice was louder and harsher than he’d intended, and both women jumped before they whirled around.
“Weston,” his sister gasped. “What did I say about sneaking?”
“What are you doing here?” Ignoring Brynne, he asked the question directly of Evie, who frowned at his accusatory tone.
“Lady Brynne wanted to show me the new filly,” she said, adjusting the crimson shawl draped over her shoulders. “I was not aware the stables were off limits.”
“They’re not,” Brynne interceded, rolling her eyes at him. “My brother is being an arse. As usual.”
“You know I don’t like guests wandering unsupervised around the barn,” he said. “Or have you forgotten the time Lady Gibberson tried to feed my prized colt champagne?”
“That happenedonce. And if I recall, he quite liked it.”
“That is beside the point.”
“Then whatisthe point?” said Brynne. “For ’tis obvious that Miss Thorncroft is neither unsupervised nor wandering. We just wanted to see how the foal was faring.”
