That’s all that kissing her meant to him, apparently.
A lapse in judgment.
A miscalculation.
Amistake.
And to think, she’d been on the brink of telling him that shehadcome to Hawkridge Manor with ulterior motives in mind. That she did want the ring, and his fortune, and his title, besides. That she did deserve some of the blame he’d just absolved her of.
The admission had danced on the tip of her tongue for the entirety of their conversation…right up until he’d compared her to a fifth cousin.
Acousin.
She wasn’t his cousin, thrice removed or otherwise. There was no blood shared between them. But there was passion. At least, she’d thought there was. Until he had informed her that she was no more than a lapse in judgment.
The bounder.
She was of half a mind to gather her things and leave. But that would be tantamount to admitting defeat…which was something Thorncrofts simply did not do. It wasn’t in her to give up, and thus she would keep going forward. All the way to the altar. Because she hadn’t come this far, and gone through this much, tonotbecome a countess.
The foyer was a bustling hive of activity as footmen and scullery maids alike rushed about, hurrying to complete finishing touches before the first wave of guests descended upon the estate. They filled vases with flowers and glass dishes with colorful candies. Rubbed a final layer of beeswax on any exposed wood to bring out its natural luster, and took care to polish each doorknob until it shone. The drapes were pinned back. Rugs were unrolled. Paintings were hung on the white walls with care and large potted ferns were given a fresh layer of topsoil before being strategically positioned to bring some color into the manor.
From the front drawing room came the random plinking of keys as the piano was tuned, and in the parlor the loudpopof a cork as sparkling wine was poured into glass flutes arranged on a long table.
Keeping her head down, Evie was able to slip unnoticed up the stairs and into her bedchamber.
She’d been looking forward to the receiving dinner with all the giddy delight of a child on Christmas morning, but her interlude with the earl had dampened her spirits.
Not the kissing part.
She’d thoroughly enjoyed the kissing part…even if she was mortified by her reaction. She had been so caught up in Weston’s embrace that when he had pulled away without warning, the abruptness of his rejection had made her eyes well with tears.
He had kissed her, and she hadcried, and then he’d called her his cousin.
Clearly, her plan needed a few modifications.
Slipping out of her shawl and kicking off her shoes, Evie flopped belly first onto the bed and buried her face in a pillow. She could not remember the last time she’d cried. When she and her sisters had received news of their father’s death, perhaps, because she vividly recallednotcrying at his funeral.
Claire had. From when they’d first entered the church to when they’d left, she’d sniffled quietly into a white linen handkerchief with pink roses embroidered on the corner. Joanna’s grief had been louder, but then such was Joanna. Loud and vivacious in everything she did, even mourning. But Evie…Evie hadn’t shed a single tear.
She hadwantedto. She had tried to. But her eyes had remained dry for the entire service and even after, when they’d laid the wooden casket into the earth, she’d been unable to cry. Her lack of a reaction had garnered more than a few stares, some from her own family, but there was nothing she could do. In a desperate act of salvation, she’d taken all of the grief and loss and love that she’d felt for her father and bottled it up inside of a plain glass jar where it couldn’t hurt her anymore. Then she’d sealed it shut. And in the years that followed, the jar had remained closed.
The loss of her childhood home hadn’t opened it. Having to part with all of her beloved material possessions and the subsequent abandonment of her friends just made the lid tighter. As had the discovery of her mother’s affair, and the subsequent loss of the ring. She’d wanted to give in to despair when she and Joanna were sailing across the ocean and her head was in a bucket, but she’d been so dehydrated from her sea sickness that the tears hadn’t come.
Why, then, would she cry over Lord Hawkridge, of all people?
When she hadn’t managed a tear for her own father.
Rolling onto her back, Evie stared blankly at the canopy draped over the bedposts. The answer, she feared, was obvious.
She wasn’t justfallingin love with Weston.
She’d fallen.
Completely.
And the lid on the glass jar that she’d poured all of her grief and hurt and heartbreak into had finally wrenched loose.
She supposed that it wasn’t unexpected. The pressure had been building for days. A culmination of lust, and frustration, and longing. It only made sense that ithadto be released, or else the jar–and Evie along with it–would have shattered into a thousand little shards of sorrow and splintered glass. And when Weston had kissed her, and then rejected her, yet again, the jar had finally popped open and her tears had fallen out…along with her heart.
