“That tosser?” The duke’s lip curled. “Elizabeth could have done a far sight better.”
“He came around in the end.” And so, she hoped, would Weston. “Have you ever been in love, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” he said darkly. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Neither would I. I hadn’t planned to, you know. Fall in love with Weston, that is.” She placed her elbow on the table and plopped her chin into the palm of her hand. She shouldn’t have been admitting such intimate thoughts and feelings to a man who was, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger. Not to mention a duke, besides. But she felt comfortable around Sterling in the same way that she felt comfortable around Joanna. And without her elder sister to confide in, a renowned rake and libertine would have to make do. “I just wanted to marry him for his money and title.”
Sterling patted his chest. “A woman after my own heart.”
“Then somewhere between there and here, that all changed.” Her shoulders slumped. “This is why I never wanted to fall in love. Especially with someone who did not reciprocate my feelings.”
“Weston is madly in love with you,” Sterling said confidently, as if he were declaring that the sky was blue or water was wet. “He’s just too much of a stubborn arse to admit it. Give him a bit more time yet to get his head on straight. Once he does, you’ll have your Mr. Darcy.”
Therewerestriking similarities between Weston and Jane Austen’s fictional protagonist. They were both aloof, unapproachable, emotionally detached men. Why, Mr. Darcy even had a sister! But that was fiction, she reminded herself. And this was real life. And even though Miss Austen had been immeasurably talented, even she could not have dreamed up a character as impossibly stubborn and infuriatingly obtuse as Weston Weston, Earl of Hawkridge. Even if she had, what heroine would have possibly been foolish enough to fall in love with such a man?
“How can you be so certain?” she asked Sterling glumly.
“Because he’s as miserable as you are. And if that isn’t a sign of being in love, I don’t know what is. Chin up, my dear,” he said encouragingly. “If Hawkridge ends up being too blind to see what’s right in front of his face, then you could always marry me and become a duchess. Depending on if I’m summoned before the House of Lords and convicted of murder, you might never have to see me. Just spend my wealth as you see fit.”
“It wouldn’t be the mostterriblething in the world,” she allowed.
Sterling grinned. “That’s the spirit!”
When Posy bounded over to the door, her little tail wagging, Evie stood up. While the lamb possessed remarkable intelligence for such a small creature and was very nearly housebroken, she wasn’t completely immune to accidents.
“Have a good rest of your day, Your Grace. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”
“For the last time, it’s Sterling,” he admonished lightly. “And I’m sure we will. Best of luck, Miss Thorncroft. You’re damned well going to need it.”
After a long,tediously dull dinner, Weston accompanied his houseguests out to the gardens where torches lit the night sky and cool, crisp air hinted of autumn nights soon to come.
Brynne had organized a popular parlor game for them all to play, but given the number of people involved, had decided to host it outside. After directing all of the men to the left side of the garden and all of the women to the right, she gave each lady an unwound spool while to the gentlemen she handed the end of a piece of thread that had been twisted around bushes, across fountains, and under statues, creating a veritable maze of colorful string.
Often played with the lights dimmed or, in this case, outside in a dark labyrinth of narrow stone pathways and towering hedges, the game was little more than an excuse to kiss or fondle a comely lady–or lord–without repercussion or judgment.
“Every person had been randomly assigned a partner,” Brynne announced to a flurry of excited titters and giggles. “The first couple to unite their spool with the end of their thread shall be declared the winner! Are you ready?”
“Last time I did one of these, Lady Dunlop groped my bollocks,” Sterling grumbled from beside Weston where they stood shoulder to shoulder at the end of the line.
“The dowager countess is nearly eighty years of age and half-blind,” Weston said mildly. “I’m sure it was an accident.”
“She knew exactly what she was doing.”
“How was it?”
The duke shrugged. “Wasn’t the worst grab and tickle I’ve ever had. Who are you hoping you’re paired with? Lady Martha, I suppose.”
“I haven’t given it much thought,” Weston lied.
Normally, such frivolous games were beneath his level of interest. Something to endure rather than enjoy. But as he glanced at the string he had tied around his wrist so as not to lose it in the dark, he couldn’t escape the knowledge that there was only one woman he wanted to find on the other end.
And it wasn’t Martha Smethwick.
For the entire dinner, and the hours preceding it, he had tried to gain Evie’s attention. But whether by accident or design, her focus had always been on another. And when he’d seen her speaking exclusively with Mr. Greer during dessert, it had taken all of the self-control he had in him not to launch across the table and demand that his fellow board member immediately remove his hand from the back of Evie’s chair lest Weston cut it off with a bread knife.
Jealousy was such an ugly emotion. Red, angry, and pulsing. Like a pustule that needed to be lanced.
But it was also revealing.
