Yes.
That wasexactlywhat was going to happen.
He’d bet his last bottle of Glenavon scotch on it.
If he had a bottle of Glenavon scotch to bet with.
As Weston entered the foyer, he was relieved to see that it was blissfully quiet save for the rustling of servants as they dashed hither and yon, their arms filled with an assortment of linens and tea services. Given the early hour, all of the guests were either abed or preparing for the day that lay ahead. He didn’t need to look at the schedule Brynne had given him, complete with dark lines and circles to emphasize the events where his presence was required, to know what was to occur. The first full day of the house party was invariably the same: a grand breakfast in the solarium, followed by a tour of the grounds and then a late outdoor luncheon on a hilltop with magnificent views of the entire estate. In the evening hours, the ladies and gentlemen would retreat to their respective corners, where they’d play whist or sip port and then retire to bed only to do it all over again on the morrow.
It was to be a long, repetitive month. The same as last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. The only difference of notethisyear was that when the house party concluded, he would have a fiancée. All he had left to do was pick how and when he wanted to propose.
Originally, he had planned to wait until the grand ball on the very last night. Take Lady Martha out to the gardens, compliment the way the moonlight shone in her hair or some other such nonsense, and get down on bended knee. She’d undoubtedly burst into tears of joy, he would slip his mother’s ring onto her finger, and they would return to the ballroom to ringing applause.
It would be a perfectly suitable beginning to a perfectly suitable marriage.
Except…except he didn’t know what color her eyes were.
How could he plan a proposal if he didn’t know the color of her eyes?
He was fairly certain they were brown.
Or maybe hazel.
Gray?
Hedidknow that Lady Martha’s eyes weren’t blue. Or if they were, they paled in comparison to Evie’s vivid cerulean gaze.
And here he was, thinking about Evie once again.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. Damp with sweat from his ride, it nearly stood on end as he turned his attention to Sterling who’d gone into the adjoining parlor and, by all outward signs, had fallen asleep on a velvet settee.
“You’re going to frighten the guests,” he said, nudging the duke’s boot as he walked by on his way to a sideboard that had been set with a modest assortment of breads, jams, fruit, and coffee for any early risers who might make their way downstairs in search of a bite to eat before the more formal breakfast was served.
Pouring himself a cup of dark, aromatic coffee, he added a splash of cream and then settled himself at a spindle-legged table across from Sterling who had begun to snore.
“Has the duke fallen ill?” Brynne queried some five minutes later when she swept into the parlor, looking as fresh as a daisy in a yellow dress trimmed with white.
“No, just the victim of a late night with a flask of my best scotch,” Weston said with a disgruntled glance at Sterling. “You’re up early.”
“I am running nearly half an hour behind, actually. With the Smethwicks and Hodgesons due this morning before breakfast, and an unexpected guest to join us later this afternoon, it is going to be a busy day.” Crossing briskly to the sideboard, she prepared a cup of tea before joining her brother at the table.
In unison, they sipped their collective beverages and stared at Sterling.
“If I stood accused of murder, I would probably be driven to drink as well.” Brynne’s nose wrinkled as a particularly loud sound erupted from the duke’s nasal cavities. “Although I’d never snore as loud as that. Heavens, he sounds like a boar.”
“A dying boar, maybe.”
“Should we wake him?” she asked.
“I’d give him a few minutes longer,” Weston said charitably. “Then call for a maid to dump a bucket of cold water on his head.”
“He won’t take kindly to that.”
“No, most likely not.”
Pursing her lips, Brynne blew a spiral of steam off the top of her tea. “Have you spoken to Miss Thorncroft?”
Coffee nearly sloshed over the rim of Weston’s cup as his hand jolted. He quickly composed himself. “Why would you ask me that?”
