A gray eye slit open. “Ah, but Evelyn is going to drive our good earl mad with envy.”
Her ears pricked.
Oh it would, would it?
Ordinarily, she’d never consider deploying such petty means by which to gain attention. But when Weston had reduced their physical connection to a regrettable error, he’d thrown down a gauntlet. And having purged herself of self-pity and tears, she was ready to pick it up.
“Well, in that case…” she said, a coy smile stealing across her lips. “Evelyn it is.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Late night?” Westonasked Sterling as the two men rode back to Hawkridge Manor after a brisk gallop through the neighboring fields and the duke delivered a jaw-cracking yawn. His fourth, by Weston’s estimation.
“In fact, it was.” Allowing the gelding he rode its head, Sterling slumped in his saddle and dragged a hand across his face. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks flushed. He’d stopped thrice to take a piss, and had been gulping water from his flask–Weston hoped it was water–like a damned fish. “I might have had a few too many nips of scotch last night.”
“What gave you that indication?” Weston said dryly as they reached the stable courtyard and dismounted. Or rather, Weston dismounted. Sterling rolled off his horse like a potato sent down a chute and staggered for a bit before ultimately giving in to the demands of gravity and falling straight on his arse.
Handing his mount to a groom, Weston removed his gloves and tucked them into the waistband of his breeches before he held out his hand and hauled the duke back onto his feet, only to recoil in disgust as a very potent odor invaded his nostrils.
“Bloody hell, man. You’ve the stench of a distillery.”
“Aye,” Sterling agreed. “But it’s a fine Scottish distillery.”
Weston looked at the flask the duke was cradling against his chest like a precious babe, then back at Sterling. His eyes narrowed. “Is that the rest of my–”
“Glenavon scotch? Indeed.” Sterling’s grin was unrepentant. “As I said, it’s an excellent vintage.”
“You mean itwasan excellent vintage,” Weston grumbled as they walked towards the manor. “That was the last bottle I had.”
“Then we’ll just have to find Lord Campbell and get another. I’ve heard the Highlands are nice this time of year. Lots of buxom young maidens dashing about in plaid.”
Weston lifted a brow. “Are whisky and wenches all you think about?”
“What else is there?” Sterling asked, appearing genuinely confused.
Ending a long day in the arms of the woman you love and waking up beside her in the morning.
The thought, as unbidden as it was unwanted, nearly caused Weston to stumble over thin air. As ifhe’dbeen the one who had spent the night drinking instead of Sterling. Something he would be hard pressed to do after the fact, given that the duke had polished off his best scotch.
“Let’s just get you inside and cleaned up,” he said shortly. “There’s a breakfast this morning and a picnic outing planned for this afternoon. If I have to attend, then so do you.”
“Shoot me now and be done with it,” Sterling groaned.
Weston knew the feeling.
For a boy who had once yearned for companionship, it was the very height of irony that he had grown up into a man who despised it.
The loud noises, the socialization, the fawning attention from mothers who wanted nothing more than for their daughters to become countesses…if not for the obligation he felt to continue the tradition his grandfather had started, he would have ended the house party long ago.
At least Brynne enjoyed the planning and playing the part of hostess, for as much as it took her away from her painting. A role his twin would be subsequently released from once he was married to Evie.
No.
Not Evie.
Lady Martha, he corrected himself.
He was going to marry Lady Martha, whose carriage would be arriving within the hour. And Evie was going to marry a respectable nobleman of his choosing (which almost certainly ruled out Sterling, duke or not). They’d see each other occasionally at balls and at the theater, whereupon they would nod and smile politely, the time he’d brought her to rapturous release with the lap of his tongue and clutched her thighs as she trembled against him in tiny little aftershocks of pleasure all but forgotten.
