He handed the book to her with one brow arched upward as he held her gaze. “Is this where you keep your secrets?” he teased.
Evie snatched the journal from his outstretched hand. “Actually, Lord Rothwell, it’s a repository of all the plans for this silly fortnight. Menus, seating arrangements, parlor games, and outdoor activities, along with names and details about the ladies who’ve been trotted out for your perusal. You needn’t worry about all the information because our aunts have planned the whole thing down to the minute.”
After her rushed ramble, he flinched as if she’d struck him.
Evie took a breath and regretted that her tone wasn’t that of their usual banter. Today she sounded like what she was—a tired spinster disgusted by the prospect of seeing one of a half dozen young ladies rushed into a loveless marriage.
“Then I should be more mindful of the minutes,” he said coolly. “A quarter of an hour will do fine. Please tell Lady Worthington I’ll head to the drawing room directly.”
“Very good, my lord.” Evie waited for some parting quip, but none came. He simply studied her a moment longer, then nodded his head once and started past her.
Evie closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Unfortunately, his juniper berry scent lingered in his wake.
She waited, listening to his retreating footsteps. Until they stopped.
Turning, she found he’d paused and stood watching her.
“I don’t know what you heard.” He nudged his chin toward the door of his father’s rooms. “But I ask you to speak of it to no one.”
“Of course.” Discretion was a skill she’d mastered. She’d been keeping secrets all her life.
He swallowed hard and lowered his gaze to the carpet beneath their feet, then lifted his head, causing their gaze to clash again. “You look well,” he said with a quiet intensity that made Evie’s heart rattle in her chest.
Before she could offer any reply, he pivoted on his heel, strode the length of the hall, and disappeared down the stairs.
Evie laid a hand over her mouth. Was she losing her wits? What in the world had just happened?
She didn’t like things she didn’t understand, and she had no idea what to make of this Lord Rothwell. He’d never been changeable or unexpected. He might unsettle her every time she caught sight of him, but he was a staid, reliable man. Respectable and honorable. Rothwell likely had his dalliances like other bachelor noblemen. He’d co-authored that ridiculousRogues’ Rulebookwith a couple of noblemen friends, after all. But most considered him a man who bowed to society’s expectations. Goodness, this house party was the greatest proof of that.
Now she wondered how well she knew him. How could he bark at her one moment and pay her a compliment the next? He never complimented her. Even as children, they were always bickering or teasing each other.
Maybe his father was the cause. Evie glanced back at the door Rothwell had emerged from before heading downstairs. Those ugly words had been shouted at him. A warning? Part of his father’s fearmongering to ensure his son found a bride within the fortnight?
No wonder he’d appeared so stricken.
Evie felt like a fool for biting back at his question about her journal when the whole course of his life was about to change in the span of two weeks. Whatever her thoughts about the fortnight, he was at Carthwaite because he wished to do his duty, and his aunt and hers had spent months planning every aspect of the house party.
I will do my duty too.No matter how her belly fluttered, and her heartbeat sped every time she got a glimpse of Grayson Hawkridge, Marquess of Rothwell.
CHAPTER3
Lady Imogen, daughter of Lord and Lady Bevilstoke, was the only guest Evie was truly happy to see. They’d become friends during Imogen’s coming out three Seasons ago, bonding over a shared passion for charitable endeavors and a burning determination to retain some measure of independence, despite the expectations placed upon unmarried young ladies.
“Your presence makes this journey feel worthwhile,” Imogen told Evie, eyeing her over the rim of the cordial she sipped. “You must know I have grave misgivings about all of this.”
They stood side by side in the largest drawing room in the castle, an enormous, high-ceilinged room that had an oddly cozy feeling to it despite its grandeur. Several overstuffed sofas and chairs had been arranged around the room, and a crackling fire gave off a comforting warmth.
The gentleman—Rothwell and the few gentlemen who’d been invited to make up numbers—had retreated to the billiard room after dinner. Shortly, all the guests would reconvene, and the parlor games would commence.
“When I saw your name on the guest list,” Evie confided to her friend, “I suspected enormous pressure had been exerted.”
Evie had never warmed to Lady Bevilstoke as she had to her daughter. Imogen’s mind was forever churning with philanthropic ideas for the various causes she cared about, but her mother had a singular focus. After Imogen failed to secure a match after three Seasons, her mother became increasingly determined to see her daughter marry well.
“I envy you, my dear,” Imogen said quietly, her dark eyes filled with emotion. “Lady Worthington never insists on marrying you off to some odious nobleman.”
“And I’m thankful for that.” Evie had no intention of ever marrying, but she’d never divulged enough of her past for her friend to understand why. Yet she found herself tempted to quibble about Rothwell’s nature. He was many things, but he wasn’t odious.
“I didn’t mean to condemn Rothwell,” Imogen added in a whisper as if she’d read Evie’s thoughts. “You were childhood friends, weren’t you? Tell me why I should be keen to win a proposal of marriage from the marquess.”
