reply was a low, rumbling growl. “It’s true, Mr.
Bridgeton was renowned throughout
our village for his striking blond hair, piercing green eyes, and chiseled
countenance, but it is not as if he was a Greek god or anything. However, come to
think of it, I did hear him compared to Adonis on occasion. And yes, he was the son
of a senator, which, in America, might as well have made him a marquess.” She
tapped her chin. “A marquess is higher in ranking than an earl, is it not?”
Weston’s growl intensified.
“Do you have something in your throat?” she asked innocently. “Perhaps a nip of
brandy might help.”
“Miss Thorncroft,” he bit out through gritted teeth, “has anyone ever told you how
incredibly vexing you are?”
“Not Mr. Bridgeton. He thought I was…what were the words he used…” She pursed her
lips. “That’s right! Now I remember. ‘Delightfully charming, astonishingly
beautiful, and virtuous beyond reproach.’”
“A regular Alfred Tennyson, your Mr. Bridgeton,” Weston sneered. “If he was so
bloody perfect, why didn’t you marry him?”
“Because I–oh, Lord Hawkridge, look!” On a gasp, Evie drew attention to a small,
bleating lamb that had just come into view over the top of the hillside. “It’s in
trouble. We have to help it.”
“It’s a sheep in a field filled with sheep,” he said pointedly. “I am fairly
confident it does not require the assistance of two people, one of whom is–Miss
Thorncroft, where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Much later, Evie would look back on her actions and feel nothing short of
humiliating, cheek-burning embarrassment. But in that moment, with her mind still
pleasantly numb and her emotions running high, all she saw was a lamb calling out
for its mother. As she knew the sting of losing a parent all too well, how could
she not help?
Never mind that she didn’t even like animals.
Especially of the smelly farm variety.
But while piles of dung would have been of utmost concern to sober Evie,
intoxicated Evie barely noticed as she bunched up her skirts, climbed through the
fence, and dashed off up the hill.
With alarmed bleats, woolly white sheep scattered in every direction. But the lost
lamb didn’t move. And it wasn’t until she’d reached the frantically bleating baby
and caught a glimpse of what was laying at the bottom on the other side of the hill
that she understood why.
“Close your eyes,” Weston ordered, materializing as if out of nowhere to grasp her
waist and spin her away from the gruesome sight. He wrapped his arms around her
trembling frame, holding her in a protective embrace against his chest as her
stomach rolled in protest at what she’d seen.
“That poor thing,” she cried. “It was…it was…”
“Dead,” he said flatly. “Killed early this morning, if I had to guess.”
“What could do such a thing? Wolves?”
“There haven’t been wolves in England for hundreds of years. The sheep was
butchered by poachers, most likely, as there’s no natural predator large enough to
take down a full grown ewe. At least nothing that would leave behind its lamb.”
“The lamb!” Slipping out of Weston’s hold, Evie crouched beside the distraught baby
and gently ran her hand across its back. It couldn’t have been older than a few
days, a week at the most. She’d never seen one this size before. It had large,
liquid brown eyes, velvety ears that stuck straight out
