Gray nodded, took a deep, bracing breath, and started up the stairs.
* * *
No matterhow hard she tried, Evangeline Granger couldn’t keep her gaze from flickering to the tall stained-glass windows in the great hall of Carthwaite Castle. Wind lashed rain against the panes in relentless gusts, and she shivered despite how the castle’s staff diligently fed the enormous fireplace with fragrant oak logs that warmed the room.
Something about the narrow windows, high ceilings, and ancient stones of the castle made her ill at ease. And the prospect of seeing the heir to all of it always filled her with a strange sort of anxiousness—half eagerness, half dread.
She’d known Grayson Hawkridge, Marquess of Rothwell, most of her life. She found him insufferable a good deal of the time and found herself watching him from across ballrooms the rest of the time.
Where is he?
Normally, the whereabouts of Rothwell, soon-to-be Duke of Carthwaite, weren’t Evie’s concern. Mostly, she did her best to steer clear of the arrogant nobleman.
He was beautiful in the way an extraordinary sculpture was beautiful—flawless and untouchable—forcing you to marvel at its marble perfection. And the worst of it was that she suspected the marquess was well aware of his appeal. How could he not be?
No, the worst would be if he were aware of how much he unsettled her usually self-possessed nature.
But her feelings about Rothwell, and the way her heartbeat sped whenever he was near, didn’t matter.
Today, she’d have to face him. His presence was essential. Indeed, the entire two-week house party that her aunt, Lady Worthington, and his aunt, Lady Hepworth, had organized at Carthwaite was for his benefit. He’d been summoned to his family’s ancient castle in cold, rainy Yorkshire by his dying father, who even now lay abed in the ducal suite upstairs, awaiting his heir’s arrival.
Other guests had been coming in a steady stream for hours, making a dash from their carriages into the grand stone-paved entry hall to escape the dreadful weather. The staff had been marvelously efficient at showing the noblewomen and their hopeful daughters and the few gentlemen invited for even numbers to their rooms and then plying them with warm refreshments.
Evie’s current task—she’d been entrusted with several from her aunt—was to tick off the names of each guest present, ensuring that everyone who’d been expected was accounted for.
Lord Rothwell’s name at the top of the list. There’d never been a doubt he’d obey his father’s summons.
And yet he wasn’t here.
“Good afternoon, Lady Bellmere, Lady Lenora.” Evie attempted a bright smile for the latest arrivals. “I’m so glad you reached Carthwaite safely.”
“It’s a blessing that we did.” Lady Bellmere pulled her shawl up around the neck of her gown. “The roads were treacherous, and I feared my darling Lenora would take ill.”
The debutante nodded emphatically. “It was dreadful, Miss Granger. I wouldn’t wish anyone to be caught in such a deluge.”
“No, neither would I.” Not even the far too handsome nobleman who’d plagued her most of her life.
Evie glanced at the windows again, at lightning streaking through the sooty clouds. A moment later, thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Goodness, I hope it stops soon,” Lady Lenora whined. Then she leaned in closer to Evie, lowering her voice. “I haven’t seen the marquess yet. Where is he?”
The single question Evie wanted to be answered too. “I shall do my best to find out for you, my lady. If you’ll excuse me.”
Evie strode away and slipped into an alcove at the side of the entry hall where no one could see her. Her breaths had begun to come in short, painful bursts, and her heart had beat a fierce tattoo in her chest.
No matter how she pushed the thoughts away, her mind kept careening toward frightful possibilities. A carriage accident had taken her family from her when she was so young that she could scarcely recall her mother or father.
He’s fine. Nothing has happened to him.
There wasn’t a more capable, self-assured nobleman in all of England. Gray had always possessed the kind of luck that others only dreamed of—he’d been born into a family whose reputation and bloodlines ran back to the first king of England, and he had inherited all of his mother’s golden beauty and his father’s keen intelligence and commanding presence.
Evie swiped a hand across her forehead. This silly worry gnawing at her had to be fatigue. She’d been on her feet for hours and hadn’t slept a wink the previous night. Anticipation always filled her with nervous energy she couldn’t easily dispel. One would think she’d be used to assisting her aunt, who hosted myriad social events throughout the social Season.
But Aunt Lydia had stressed how important this fortnight would be. It wasn’t the usual house party arranged for nobles to engage in sport and visit with each other in the countryside.
The urgency and importance of this event lay in one objective: Lord Rothwell needed a wife.
“Where is he?” a young debutante demanded in a tone loud enough that she must have meant it to carry to the other guests.
