“What was that for?” he said gruffly, tucking an ebony curl behind her ear.
“For opening your heart to meandmy family. I love you, Weston Weston, and I cannot wait to marry you.” She kissed him again, just a light brush of her lips across his cheek, but when she turned to follow Joanna out of the foyer, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.
“We could be married by the end of the week, if you wanted.” He nuzzled her neck, then slid his hand inside her pelisse to fondle her breasts. “Just say the word and I’ll have a carriage readied to take us to Gretna Green.”
Twisting in his arms, she poked her finger into the middle of his chest. “I am a greedy, selfish woman, Weston. I want you, and I want my big wedding, and my beautiful dress, and my white doves. I want all of it. And then I want a lifetime of happiness.”
“Then that’s what you shall have.” A flicker of suspicion rippled across his countenance. “What doves?”
“The ones I’ve ordered to be released as we walk out of the village church.”
“I don’t recall agreeing to any doves. They’re nothing more than glorified pigeons.”
“They’re a symbol of love and hope,” she corrected. “And they’ll be lovely.”
“If one takes a shite on my head–”
“It wouldn’t dare,” she said even as a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Besides, Posy will be there, and she’ll want some other animals for company.”
Weston’s sigh was long and suffering as he cast his gaze to the vaulted ceiling. “The things men do for love.”
“I’ll let you know what we find out about Rosemary and Hanover.” A final kiss, and Evie hurried out the door after Joanna.
For the secondtime in less than a week, Sterling woke to the sound of pounding fists at his door. Grumbling and growling, he rolled out of bed, stuck a hand in the face of his apologetic valet, and marched down the stairs to tell whoever was brazen enough to come calling at the ungodly hour of half past ten in the morning that he’d see them straight to hell.
“Out of the way,” he muttered at the three footmen who were physically attempting to hold the door closed while whoever was on the other side of it used Herculean strength to shove it open. “I’ll take care of this.”
Looking relieved, the servants moved to the side, the door slammed open, and none other than Weston and Kincaid stumbled inside, their forward momentum nearly causing them to fall onto the marble tile in a tangle of limbs while Sterling watched in cool amusement from a safe distance.
“Uncivilized louts,” he remarked. “Haven’t you ever heard of a calling card? Obviously your American brides are having a poor influence.”
Weston regained his balance first and turned on Sterling with the cold, implacable expression of a boxer right before he stepped into the ring. While shorter by a few inches, the dark-haired earl had the muscular build of a bull and fists of iron that a man would be foolish to place himself on the other side of. “We’ve been friends a long time, but if you say another word about Evie ever again it will be your last.”
“Duly noted.” Sterling’s gaze flicked to Kincaid. “What about you? Care to make any threats?”
The private detective removed his spectacles, polished them on the sleeve of his tweed jacket, and carefully placed them back on his face. “My wifeisa bad influence, so I’ve nothing to say to that regard. We’ve come to discuss your sudden engagement.”
His engagement.
To Rosemary.
Bollocks.
The enormity of it hadn’t sunk in yet. Or maybe it had, but the weight of it had gotten lost somewhere in the bottom of the second bottle of the Duke of Clemson’s excellent Kentucky bourbon.
While Rosemary had left the Marigold Ball early, Sterling remained behind to spread the good news of their pending nuptials. News that had been received with equal parts amazement, disbelief, and despair. He was even fairly certain he’d caught a bevy of debutantes and their mothers weeping behind a potted palm tree.
In hindsight, he should have retired then and there. But his mood had been high, his spirits jovial, and when Clemson and Lord Andover, an old mate from Eton, invited him to join them for a rousing night on the town, who was he to refuse?
They’d started at the Carlton Club in St. James’s, a private meeting house for the conservatively minded members of Parliament (shockingly, Sterling had never been awarded a membership in his own right), and ended up at Crockford’s right down the row, a gambling hell started by a common fishmonger who’d risen to prominence and obscene wealth by routinely emptying the pockets of drunk aristocrats.
Crockford had certainly lightened Sterling’s coffers by a considerable amount. He wasn’t even sure how much money he’d lost at the tables, or what time his valet had finally come to collet him. All he did know was that he had awoken in his own bed…and he was engaged to Rosemary. The latter of which was apparently not sitting well with either Weston or Kincaid if their stern, unforgiving expressions were any sign.
“Is this going to be an entire conversation, or can we get it over with in ten words or less?” he asked, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Because I was up late, and–”
“A conversation,” Kincaid interrupted.
“Alongconversation,” Weston said with emphasis.
