But the Marquess of Dorchester never had.
Years ago, Weston had resigned himself to the fact that he never would.
And he’d made peace with that. Even better, he’d made himself into someone who did not require love to survive. But the price for encasing a heart in ice was a steep one, and he was paying it now.
Maybe…maybehe’d be able to love Evie as she loved him.
But he wasn’t going to base a marriage on such a tenuous assumption.
“If there is nothing else?” she said, arching a brow.
“No.” Tamping down the tendrils of desire that threatened with a stern hand, Weston gave a curt shake of his head. “There is nothing.”
“Splendid. I shall see you at the picnic, then.” She glanced at the window where the clouds had grown even darker. “If we are not rained out, that is.”
Trailing frost in her wake, she brushed past him and sauntered out of the library.
Chapter Seventeen
It rained forthe next four days straight.
Trapped inside lest she wished to succumb to a good drenching, Evie spent a large portion of her time with Rosemary. The cousins explored the manor’s vast art collection, worked on their embroidery, listened to an impromptu recital put on by Lady Martha (who, it went without saying, was a consummate pianist with a lovely soprano), and spent a memorable night skidding down a marble hallway in their stockings after imbibing too much wine at dinner.
For the most part, Evie managed not to think about Weston at all…until came the night, and he wasallshe could think about.
Staring up at the canopy above her bed while rain pummeled the windows and wind howled through the trees, she went over every conversation they’d ever had, beginning with when they’d met.
He’d asked her to dance and without knowing anything about him except that he had the most arresting stare she had ever seen, she’d accepted.
When she had bumped into his chest (his fault, as he’d pulled her into a turn a tad too forcefully), she’d been surprised at the spark she felt. The first sign that they were always destined to catch fire.
“I am sorry, my lord,” she’d said, even though she hadn’t been. Not really.
“The error was mine,” he had replied, although the gleam in his gray eyes revealed that he wasn’t sorry for it.
“I suspected as much, but am always loath to point out other’s errors unless they are deserving of it.”
“And I am not deserving of critique?” he’d asked.
“That remains to be seen,” she had replied coyly.
Moving in flawless unison, they’d waltzed around a slower couple and Weston’s hand had slid just a little further down her back than propriety allowed.
“What is your name?” he’d wanted to know. “You are not from around here.”
“Was it the accent that gave it away?”
“That, and I never forget a face.”
“Do you find it memorable?” she’d asked. “My face, that is.”
“You’re beautiful. Only a blind man could forget you.”
“And you’re not blind.”
“I am not,” he’d confirmed.
“Just rude, then, for asking me to introduce myself to you when it is a gentleman’s duty to introduce himself to the lady.”
