The book fell to the floor.
His heart plummeted along with it.
“Miss Thorncroft, I…”
“It’s not your fault,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s mine. I put myself in this situation. I thought…I hadplanned…to marry you. For your money, and your title, and my mother’s ring.”
An icy chill passed between Weston’s shoulder blades.
“You plannedwhat?” he said in a very soft, very dangerous sort of tone. The kind that sent anyone who did not want to die a painful death scampering for the hills. But Evelyn stayed where she was and regarded him calmly.
“Don’t look so shocked.” She rolled her eyes. “Did you honestly believe I put myself through a hundred mile trek in the desert for my good health?”
“It was eight miles in the countryside,” he growled. “And you were free to return to London at any time. Instead you–youinsertedyourself here under false pretenses and–”
“Please,” she scoffed, raising her palm. “I am not some Yankee spy come to pilfer all of your precious gold. I was after a good match, the same as every other debutante sitting in that solarium. Besides, if I’d told you what I wanted on the first day of our journey, you’d have tossed me out of the carriage without waiting for it stop. No use denying it.”
As loath as Weston was to admit it, she had a point. The entiretonwas built on the basis of matching young, eligible women with young (and sometimes not so young), eligible men. They did not refer to it as the Marriage Mart for nothing. Still, he’d have preferred that Evie had revealed her motivations outright…even though he most likelywouldhave thrown her out of the carriage.
“Why tell me now?” he asked.
“Because I am no Lady Martha Smethwick.”
His temple creased. “Of course not. You’re…you’re Miss Thorncroft.”
He’d almost–almost–called her “my Miss Thorncroft”.
Which was how he thought of her, deep down.
As his.
Only his.
To hold, to kiss, to argue with.
Except shewasn’this. And he wasn’t hers. And it was for the best that they were getting this all out in the open now so that he could proceed with finding her a suitable husband.
“I am,” she said quietly, and although her mouth smiled, her eyes remained sad. “I am Miss Thorncroft. A penniless American who made the grave error of falling in love with a man far, far above her station. It should make a lovely book, if only I could change the ending.”
She looked at him then. At him andintohim. Where he kept all of his innermost shame and secrets. Where he never let anyone look, not even Brynne. Not even himself. And he knew what she was asking. He knew what she wanted. But he couldn’t give it to her. Not today. Not tomorrow. Because what she truly desired…what she deserved…he was incapable of giving to anyone.
“I am not a writer, Miss Thorncroft. And even if I were…” A lump formed in his throat. Hard and knotty, like a burl in a slab of pine. “Even if I were, I believe all endings have a way of serving their intended purpose. This one is no different, and I would not change it.”
“You’re certain,” she whispered.
The lump expanded. “I am.”
For a long while, Evie was silent. He watched her closely, waiting for a tear to form or a cry of anguish to tumble from her lips. If she’d made but a sound, he would have gone to her. He would have been helpless not to. But her eyes remained dry, and when she spoke, her voice was remarkably even.
“Then I shall see myself out, Lord Hawkridge. If you could arrange a carriage to take me back to London–”
“Wait.” As something akin to panic clawed at him, he moved in front of the door. As if that small motion in and of itself could somehow keep her trapped in the library forever. Because as much as he did not want to marry her, he also did not want to let her go. “You…you cannot leave yet. The house party has barely begun, and…and Brynne would be devastated if you disappeared without an explanation.”
“Your concern for you sister is admirable, Lord Hawkridge, but I am confident that she will be fine.” Evie slid off the windowsill and approached the door, but he refused to move away from it. “I fail to see why you are making this immeasurably more difficult than it needs to be,” she said as twin blotches of color appeared high on her cheeks. “Have I not embarrassed myself enough already?”
“You want a husband,” he said desperately. “I can find one.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “A husband is not a lost sock. You cannot simply look underneath the bed andfindone.”
